They saw he was a dwarfish man,
And very small and thin;

Not seven such would matter much,
And so they took him in.

They laughed to see his little hat,

With such a narrow brim;

They laughed to note his dapper coat,
With skirts so scant and trim.

But barely had they gone a mile,
When, gravely, one and all
At once began to think the man
Was not so very small.

His coat had got a broader skirt,

His hat a broader brim,

His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out
A very proper limb.

Still on they went, and as they went,

More rough the billows grew, And rose and fell, a greater swell,

And he was swelling too!

And, lo! where room had been for seven,

For six there scarce was space!

For five-for four!--for three!-not more Than two could find a place!

There was not even room for one!
They crowded by degrees -
Ay-closer yet, till elbows met,
And knees were jogging knees.

"Good sir, you must not sit astern,

The wave will else come in!"

Without a word he gravely stirred,
Another seat to win.

"Good sir, the boat has lost her trim,

You must not sit a-lee!"

With smiling face and courteous grace, The middle seat took he.

But still, by constant quiet growth,
His back became so wide,

Each neighbor wight, to left and right,
Was thrust against the side.

Lord! how they chided with themselves,
That they had let him in!

To see him grow so monstrous now,
That came so small and thin.

On every brow a dew-drop stood,
They grew so scared and hot,

"I' the name of all that's great and tall, Who are ye, sir, and what?"

Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh
As loud as giant's roar —

"When first I came, my proper name
Was Little-

now I'm Moore!"

DEATH'S RAMBLE.

ONE day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank;

His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?

He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed
Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughtered it made him laugh,
(For the man was a coffin-maker,)

To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church;
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."

And he let them alone, like figures of stone,

For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,

In fear they could not smother

And he shot one through at once-for he knew
They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,

And he gave a snore infernal;

Said Death, “He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving a coach

So slow that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the quick.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll,

In the spirit of his fraternity;

But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summoned to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum ;

But he let them be for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum.”

He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,

And he marked him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for death,
And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

O HAPPY time! - Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seemed,

And such Old Masters all were deemed

As nothing to the young!

Some scratchy strokes

So easily and swift I drew,

abrupt and few,

Sufficed for my design;

My sketchy, superficial hand,

Drew solids at a dash

A surface with a line.

and spanned

Not long my eye was thus content,
But grew more critical- my bent
Essayed a higher walk;

I copied leaden eyes in lead
Rheumatic hands in white and red,
And gouty feet — in chalk.

Anon my studious art for days
Kept making faces happy phrase,
For faces such as mine!

Accomplished in the details then,
I left the minor parts of men,
And drew the form divine.

Old gods and heroes - Trojan - Greek,
Figures long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly feared;

Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,

A Pallas, that out-stared her owl,
A Vulcan very lame;

A Dian stuck about with stars,

With my right hand I murdered Mars

(One Williams did the same.)

But tired of this dry work at last,
Crayon and chalk aside I cast,