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 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.