Since that's beyond question, it isn't my fault

If it makes them all crippled and crooked and halt."

How long he'd have kept at this work I don't know,
But, at last, he encountered a powerful foe,

Who cleverly gave him his long-deserved blow.
He met Theseus, of Athens, one day, and they fought;
And Procrustes went down in the dust, as he ought;
For Theseus most boldly and openly said

He didn't acknowledge the right of the bed

As a standard for him. He declared, quite at ease:
"I've a right to be tall or be short, as I please.
Procrustes may grow to be tall as a tree,

But why should that make any difference to me?
He has made a most needless and murderous bother;
His stature is good for himself, and none other;
Besides, while he's mangled and maimed at his pleasure,
He has not brought one of them all to his measure.
Every man his own fashion of growing must keep on,
And the bed that fits him is the bed he must sleep on."

I do not insist that this happened just so;

It may be a fiction; but this much I know:
That, if but a tale of a dead long ago,

A neat little truth lies hidden behind it,

And I think, if you look, you will certainly find it.

-The Independent,

THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS.—ELiza Cook.

A stranger journeyed through the town,

One dark and wintry night;
And, as he passed the ivied church,
He marked a flitting light.

It shed a restless, waving gleam

Through the Gothic window-pane;

And now it vanished for a space,

And now it came again.

He stood, and thought it wondrous strange

That such a scene should be;

He stood, and now the full, red beam
Shone strong and steadily.

He looked around; all else was dark,

Not e'en a star was left;

The townsmen slumbered, and he thought
Of sacrilege and theft.

He roused two sleepers from their beds,
And told what he had seen;

And they, like him, were curious
To know what it should mean.

They hied together to the church,
And heard strange sounds within
Of undistinguishable words,
And laughter's noisy din.

The window is high; a ladder-quick-
"Tis placed with stealthy care,
And one ascends-he looks below;
Oh, what a sight is there!

The white communion-cloth is spread
With cards, and dice, and wine;
The flaming wax-lights glare around,
The gilded sconces shine.

And three of earthly form have made
The altar-rail their seat,

With the Bible and the books of prayer
As footstools for their feet.

Three men, with flashing, bloodshot eyes
And burning, fevered brows,

Have met within those holy walls

To gamble and carouse. ̧

But the darkest work is not yet told:

Another guest is there,

With the earthworm trailing o'er his cheek

To hide in his matted hair!

He lifted not the foaming cup,

He moved not in his place;

There was slime upon his livid lips,
And dust upon his face;

The foldings of a winding-sheet
His body wrapped around,

And many a stain the vestment bore
Of clay from the charnel ground.

A rent appeared, where his withered hands
Fell out on the sacred board;

And between those hands a goblet stood,
In which bright wine was poured.

Oh! he was not like the other three,
But ghastly, foul, and cold;

He was seated there, a stiffened corpse,
All horrid to behold.

He had been their mate for many a year,
Their partner many a game;

He had shared alike their ill-got gold,
And their deeply-tarnished fame.

He had died in the midst of his career,
As the sinful ever die;

Without one prayer from a good man's heart,
One tear from a good man's eye.

He had died a guilty one, unblessed,
Unwept, unmourned by all;

And scarce a footstep ever bent

To his grave by the old church wall.

The other three had met that night,
And reveled in drunken glee;
And talked of him who a month ago
Formed one of their company.

They quaffed another brimming glass,
And a noisy oath they swore,

That he who had joined their game so oft
Should join their game once more.

And away they strode to the old church wall,
Treading o'er skull and tomb;

And dragged him out triumphantly,

In the midnight, murky gloom.

They carry him down the chancel porch,
And through the fretted aisle ;

And many a heartless, fiendish laugh,

Is heard to ring the while.

They place him at the hallowed shrine,

They call upon his name;

They bid him wake to life again,

And play his olden game.

They deal the cards; the ribald jest
And pealing laugh ring on:

A stroke-a start-the echoing clock
Proclaims the hour of one!

And two of the three laugh louder still,
But the third stares wildly round:
He drops the cards, as if his hand
Were palsied at the sound.

His cheeks have lost their deepened flush,
His lips are of paler hue;

And Fear hath fallen on the heart
Of the youngest of that crew;

His soul is not yet firmly bound
In the fetters of reckless sin;
Depravity hath not yet wrought
Its total work within.

The strong potation of the night

Drowned all that might remain
Of feeling; and his hand shrunk not
While madness fired his brain.

But now the charm hath lost its spell,
The heated fumes have passed;
And banished Reason, to her throne
Usurped, advances fast.

He rises-staggers-looks again
Upon the shrouded dead:

A shudder steals upon his frame;
His vaunted strength is fled.

He doubts-he dreams-can, can it be?
A mist is o'er his eyes;

He stands aghast. "Oh! what is this?
Where? where?" he wildly cries.

"Where am I?-see the altar-piece-
The Holy Bible. Say-

Is this the place where I was brought
A tiny boy to pray?

"The church-the churchyard too-I know I have been there to-night;

For what? Ha! mercy! see that corpse! Oh! hide me from the light!

I have been deemed a profligate,
A gamester, and a knave,

But ne'er was known to scoff at God
Or violate the grave.

"I've long been what man should not be,
But not what I am now.

Oh! help me! help! My tongue is parched! There's fire upon my brow!

"Oh! save me! hide me from myself!
I feel my pulses start;

The horror of this drunken crime
Hath fixed upon my heart;

"Again, I feel the rushing blood!
I die!-the unforgiven!

Again, it comes! all-all is dark—
I choke-Oh! mercy, Heaven!"

One struggling groan-he reels—he falls—
On the altar-steps he lies;

And the others gasp with fear, for now
Two corpses meet their eyes.

GRACE DARLING.

"Twas a wild September evening,
And the north wind fiercely blew
When the Forfarshire came drifting
With a weary, hopeless crew,
And upon the Longstone striking
With that warning light in view.

"Father," cried the lighthouse maiden,
"Hear you not the drowning call?
Heed not though the sea be raging,
Launch our boat whate'er befall!"
Seated in that boat-a maiden
And an old man, that was all.

To the rock, through wind and tempest,
Through the raging ocean's roar,
On that dread September morning
Pulled that man and maiden o'er;
Stormy sea and danger round them,
Dying fellow-men before.