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Thomas Hood - Ode to Mr. Graham, the Aeronaut
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"Up with me!—up with me into the sky!" 
WORDSWORTH, from "On a Lark." 

I
 
Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 
Their meaner flights pursue, 
Let us cast off the foolish ties 
That bind us to the earth, and rise 
And take a bird`s-eye view!— 


II
 
A few more whiffs of my segar 
And then, in Fancy`s airy car, 
Have with thee for the skies:— 
How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl`d 
Hath borne me from this little world, 
And all that in it lies!— 


III
 
Away!—away!—the bubble fills— 
Farewell to earth and all its hills!— 
We seem to cut the wind!— 
So high we mount, so swift we go, 
The chimney tops are far below, 
The Eagle`s left behind!— 


IV
 
Ah me! my brain begins to swim!— 
The world is growing rather dim; 
The steeples and the trees— 
My wife is getting very small! 
I cannot see my babe at all!— 
The Dollond, if you please!—

 
V
 
Do, Graham, let me have a quiz; 
Lord! what a Lilliput it is. 
That little world of Mogg`s!— 
Are those the London Docks?—that channel, 
The mighty Thames?—a proper kennel 
For that small Isle of Dogs!—

 
VI
 
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?

 
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 petty shame, 
That used to fret me quite,— 
The little sores I cover`d then, 
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when 
The world is out of sight!

 
XXV
 
My name is Tims.—I am the man 
That North`s unseen diminish`d clan 
So scurvily abused! 
I am the very P. A. Z. 
The London`s Lion`s small pin`s head 
So often hath refused!

 
XXVI
 
Campbell—(you cannot see him here)— 
Hath scorn`d my lays:—do his appear 
Such great eggs from the sky?— 
And Longman, and his lengthy Co. 
Long, only, in a little Row, 
Have thrust my poems by!

 
XXVII
 
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

I hear the watchmen on their beats, 
Hawking the hour about the streets. 
Lord! what a cruel jar 
It is upon the earth to light! 
Well—there`s the finish of our flight! 
I`ve smoked my last segar!
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