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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 his 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 summon’d 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 pulld 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,

Iş contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,

And he mark’d' 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 seem'd,
And such Old Masters all were deem'd

As nothing to the young!

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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 spann'd

A surface with a line.

Not long my eye was thus content,
But grew more critical—my bent

Essay'd 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! Accomplish'd 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 fear’d ; 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 murder'd 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 penn'd,

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 sustain'd me still,
I gazed on all with right good will,

And spread the dingy tint;
“ No holy Luke help'd me to paint,
"The Devil surely, not a Saint,

Had any finger in 't !”

But colours came !—like morning light,
With gorgeous hues displacing night,

Or Spring's enliven’d scene:
At once the sable shades withdrew;
My skies got very, very blue;

My trees extremely green.

And wash'd 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!”

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