When at last Master Sponge feels a terrible shock,
And finds himself stuck on a cold rugged rock.
That rock is his world, and it hardens his case,
And renders him stronger the tempest to face,
Till from having been buffeted, he, in return,
To prey upon others commences to learn.
He stretches out feelers from every pore,

And all fish is flesh that comes near to his door.
While when we consider his vast power of suction,
Compare it with man's, and you'll form an induction.
Now how often when wending our way through the street
This most curious compound of matter we meet,

The true breed of sponge, though some call it a bore,
For it ne'er leaves its victim till dinner-time's o'er.
Then let savants sneer at my beetle-like form;
Although I confess the comparison warm-

("Try back," I'm "off scent," I was thinking of beadle, I must touch the "rem acu" with point of a needle; For I'm sure no true man would have heart so to humble Our race, as to call us descendants of "Bumble.") But why, in return, should not I, who have heard 'em, Argue too in the fashion I term ad absurdum? And when I'm attacked, say, as soon as you've done, "Of the family Sponge I will show you are one. 'Twould be easily proved, for I'm sure all must see, Almost ere I've commenced, I could reach Q.E.D. So let any in argument wishing to plunge

Be advised; but with life will I throw up my sponge.

THE tide was ebbing, the sail flowed free,
Scarce a ripple ruffled the Solent sea,

When old Tom Spencer and shipmates twain,
Sailed past the Needles toward the main.
(Pilot Spencer and Dicky Dunn,

And fair-haired Charley, the old man's son).

Beyond the cliffs that loomed so grey,
Into the tide that swept the bay,

They crossed the light of the Needles' eye,

Which gleamed like a sun in a blood-red sky. On the horizon, pale and clear,

Homeward bound a ship drew near,

Heavily laden with many a bale,

And vomiting smoke like a serpent's trail.

Quoth the old pilot to Dicky Dunn :

"We have weathered at last that 'son of a gun ;' For though he possesses a faster craft,

We'll bring in the ship,"-and the old man laughed. "He has tricked us often, but he shall see

There are others as wide awake as he."

(He named their rival.) And as he spoke, Across their bows, a raven's croak

Struck on their ears; yet on they sped,

Toward the ship which steamed straight ahead. "Ship ahoy!" But no answering beam

Replied to the pilot-lantern's gleam;

And the old man cried, with a fearful frown, "They're upon us, lad-Put your helm hard down!"

A crashing shock, and a gurgling wail,

A floating hat and a sinking sail,
Were all that remained of the pilot's boat,
Which a moment before was so trim afloat.
Two evil eyes on the steamer's deck

Scowled from the stern on the sinking wreck;
And a muttered sound was borne on the wind-
"It is not my fault if they're always behind!"

Only an accident!-yet they say

Who dwell near the shores of the white rock bay,
That one among them would rather die
Than face the glare of the Needles' eye.
And often, when it is waning light,

The hardy fisherman starts with fright,

As a cry rings clear through the gloaming brown— "They're upon us, lad!—Put your helm hard down!”

WHAT does it matter? A few years fled,
And low in the dust droops the haughtiest head;
A short day passed, a pleasure attained,

When night approaches, and what have we gained?
A struggle with nature, a battle for breath,
Or a short reprieve from our sentence of death!

What does it matter? Enjoy the day,
Bask in the sunshine, laugh and be gay.

Why should the Present be clouded with fears?

Why should life's roses be sprinkled with tears? Though all from the moment we drew the first breath, Were doomed to exist under sentence of death.

What does it matter? A few years past,

And the pleasures of life, too fleeting to last,
Become but burdens, we know not why,
But we long for rest, and for night-time sigh.
So He, who in wisdom bestowed on us breath,
Uttered even in mercy our sentence of death.