What is that seeming tea-urn there? 
That fairy dome, St. Paul’s!—­I swear,
  Wren must have been a Wren!—­
And that small stripe?—­it cannot be
The City Road!—­Good lack! to see
  The little ways of men!

VII.

Little, indeed!—­my eyeballs ache
To find a turnpike.—­I must take
  Their tolls upon my trust!—­
And where is mortal labor gone? 
Look, Graham, for a little stone
  Mac Adamiz’d to dust!

VIII.

Look at the horses!—­less than flies!—­
Oh, what a waste it was of sighs
  To wish to be a Mayor! 
What is the honor?—­none at all,
One’s honor must be very small
  For such a civic chair!—­

IX.

And there’s Guildhall!—­’tis far aloof—­
Methinks, I fancy through the roof
  Its little guardian Gogs,
Like penny dolls—­a tiny show!—­
Well,—­I must say they’re rul’d below
  By very little logs!—­

X.

Oh, Graham! how the upper air
Alters the standards of compare;
  One of our silken flags
Would cover London all about—­
Nay, then—­let’s even empty out
  Another brace of bags!

XI.

Now for a glass of bright champagne
Above the clouds!—­Come, let us drain
  A bumper as we go!—­
But hold!—­for God’s sake do not cant
The cork away—­unless you want
  To brain your friends below.

XII.

Think! what a mob of little men
Are crawling just within our ken,
  Like mites upon a cheese!—­
Pshaw!—­how the foolish sight rebukes
Ambitious thoughts!—­can there be Dukes
  Of Gloster such as these!—­

XIII.

Oh! what is glory?—­what is fame? 
Hark to the little mob’s acclaim,
  ’Tis nothing but a hum!—­
A few near gnats would trump as loud
As all the shouting of a crowd
  That has so far to come!—­

XIV.

Well—­they are wise that choose the near,
A few small buzzards in the ear,
  To organs ages hence!—­
Ah me! how distance touches all;
It makes the true look rather small,
  But murders poor pretence

XV.

“The world recedes!—­it disappears! 
Heav’n opens on my eyes—­my ears
  With buzzing noises ring!”—­
A fig for Southey’s Laureat lore!”—­
What’s Rogers here?—­Who cares for Moore
  That hears the Angels sing!—­”

XVI.

A fig for earth, and all its minions!—­
We are above the world’s opinions,
  Graham! we’ll have our own!—­
Look what a vantage height we’ve got!—­
Now—­do you think Sir Walter Scott
  Is such a Great Unknown?