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
They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box

And he gave a snore infernal;

for he knew

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 was n'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 - abrupt and few,
So easily and swift I drew,

Sufficed for my design;

My sketchy, superficial hand,

Drew solids at a dash

and spanned

A surface with a line.

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,

And gave my brush a drink. Dipping" as when a painter dips In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,". That is in Indian ink.

O then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows: What clouds of dingy hue!

In spite of what the bard has penned, I fear the distance did not "lend

Enchantment to the view."

Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design
Black forests half so black as mine,

Or lakes so like a pall;

The Chinese cake dispersed a ray
Of darkness, like the light of Day
And Martin, over all.

Yet urchin pride sustained me still;
I gazed on all with right good will,
And spread the dingy tint;
"No holy Luke helped me to paint;
The Devil, surely not a Saint,
Had any finger in 't!"

But colors came!-like morning light,
With gorgeous hues displacing night,
Or Spring's enlivened scene:
At once the sable shades withdrew;
My skies got very, very blue;
My trees, extremely green.

And, washed by my cosmetic brush,
How Beauty's cheek began to blush!
With lock of auburn stain -

(Not Goldsmith's Auburn)-nut-brown hair,
That made her loveliest of the fair;
Not "loveliest of the plain!"

Her lips were of vermilion hue;

Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,
Set all my heart in flame!

A young Pygmalion, I adored

The maids I made - but time was stored
With evil - and it came!

Perspective dawned and soon I saw

My houses stand against its law;

And "keeping" all unkept!