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 a-stern, 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 dewdrop 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!_"[39]

[Footnote 39: Thomas Moore is a forgotten poet, and it cannot therefore be impertinent to remind the reader that in his early days he published certain rather "vain and amatorious" poems under the pseudonym of "Thomas Little."]

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

Oh 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.

Oh 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 Radcliffe'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!

My beauties were no longer things For love and fond imaginings; But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?

Why did I get more artist wise?

It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine; That I'm no Hilton in design-- In nature no De Wint!

Thrice 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!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells, those evening bells, How many a tale their music tells,-- Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime, And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away, The Postman gone--and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells, And does not hear those Evening Bells.[40]

And so 'twill be when she is gone, That tuneful peal will still ring on, And other maids with timely yells Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

[Footnote 40: The muffin-boy, with his "evening bell," is still in the land; but the evening postman, perambulating the streets and collecting letters "just in time," has "passed away" for ever.]

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank, Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond; And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank, Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, For She was Fayre and He was Kinde; The Sunne went down before She wist Another Sonne had sett behinde!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe, That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne, She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde With Shrikes that Echo answered round-- O foolish Mayd! to be soe sadde The Momente that her Care was drownd!