What else?—­I’m poor, and much beset
With damn’d small duns—­that is—­in debt
  Some grains of golden dust! 
But only worth, above, is worth.—­
What’s all the credit of the earth? 
  An inch of cloth on trust?

XXVIII.

What’s Rothschild here, that wealthy man! 
Nay, worlds of wealth?—­Oh, if you can
  Spy out,—­the Golden Ball! 
Sure as we rose, all money sank: 
What’s gold or silver now?—­the Bank
  Is gone—­the ’Change and all!

XXIX.

What’s all the ground-rent of the globe?—­
Oh, Graham, it would worry Job
  To hear its landlords prate! 
But after this survey, I think
I’ll ne’er be bullied more, nor shrink
  From men of large estate!

XXX.

And less, still less, will I submit
To poor mean acres’ worth of wit—­
  I that have heaven’s span—­
I that like Shakspeare’s self may dream
Beyond the very clouds, and seem
  An Universal Man!

XXXI.

Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds! 
Like Birds of Paradise the clouds
  Are winging on the wind! 
But what is grander than their range? 
More lovely than their sunset change?—­
  The free creative mind!

XXXII.

Well! the Adults’ School’s in the air! 
The greatest men are lesson’d there
  As well as the Lessee! 
Oh could Earth’s Ellistons thus small
Behold the greatest stage of all,
  How humbled they would be!

XXXIII.

“Oh would some Power the giftie gie ’em,
To see themselves as others see ’em,”
  ’Twould much abate their fuss! 
If they could think that from the iskies
They are as little in our eyes
  As they can think of us!

XXXIV.

Of us! are we gone out of sight? 
Lessen’d! diminish’d! vanish’d quite! 
  Lost to the tiny town! 
Beyond the Eagle’s ken—­the grope
Of Dollond’s longest telescope! 
  Graham! we’re going down!

XXXV.

Ah me!  I’ve touch’d a string that opes
The airy valve!—­the gas elopes—­
  Down goes our bright Balloon!—­
Farewell the skies! the clouds!  I smell
The lower world!  Graham, farewell,
  Man of the silken moon!

XXXVI.

The earth is close! the City nears—­
Like a burnt paper it appears,
  Studded with tiny sparks! 
Methinks I hear the distant rout
Of coaches rumbling all about—­
  We’re close above the Parks!

XXXVII.