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?

XVII.

Speak up!--or hath he hid his name
To crawl thro' "subways" unto fame,
Like Williams of Cornhill?--
Speak up, my lad!--when men run small
We'll show what's little in them all,
Receive it how they will!--

XVIII.

Think now of Irving!--shall he preach
The princes down,--shall he impeach
The potent and the rich,
Merely on ethic stilts,--and I
Not moralize at two mile high
The true didactic pitch!

XIX.

Come:--what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir?
Is Gifford such a Gulliver
In Lilliput's Review,
That like Colossus he should stride
Certain small brazen inches wide
For poets to pass through?

XX.

Look down! the world is but a spot.
Now say--Is Blackwood's _low_ or not,
For all the Scottish tone?
It shall not weigh us here--not where
The sandy burden's lost in air--
Our lading--where is't flown?

XXI.

Now,--like you Croly's verse indeed--
In heaven--where one cannot read
The "Warren" on a wall?
What think you here of that man's fame?
Tho' Jerdan magnified his name,
To me 'tis very small!

XXII.

And, truly, is there such a spell
In those three letters, L. E. L.,
To witch a world with song?
On clouds the Byron did not sit,
Yet dar'd on Shakspeare's head to spit,
And say the world was wrong!

XXIII.

And shall not we? Let's think aloud!
Thus being couch'd upon a cloud,
Graham, we'll have our eyes!
We felt the great when we were less,
But we'll retort on littleness
Now we are in the skies.

XXIV.

O Graham, Graham, how I blame
The bastard blush,--the pett