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For the Literary Magazine.

tom thumb.

TOM THUMB is a hero familiar
to our childhood, and indeed has
become a sort of proverbial sample
of a great soul in a little body. It
is an old and general observation,
that distance and rumour magnify
all objects; but with regard to Tom
Thumb, they have had an opposite
effect: they have made his little
less. A cubit is added to the stature
of a giant by every new blast of
fame, but dwarfs, instead of being
gradually enlarged by the same pro-
cess to the due size of men, merely
dwindle to a diminutiveness more
and more miraculous.

Tom Thumb, in legendary lore,
was king Arthur's dwarfish page.
He was no doubt originally a very
short, though a very stout person-
age, but he has gradually become as
small, or even smaller, than a Lilli-
putian. The following verses de-
scribe him in this state of greatest
diminution, and is a very pleasing
specimen of that mode of writing.
They are taken from a poem of con-
siderable length, and describe the
second visit of this heroic minimus
to the court of Arthur.

	But now his businesse call'd him forth
	King Arthur's court to see,
	Whereas no longer from the same
	He could a stranger be.

	But yet a few small April drops
	Which setled in the way,
	His long and weary journey forth
	Did hinder and so stay.

	Until his carefull father tooke
	A birding trunke in sport,
	And with one blast blew this his sonne
	Into king Arthur's court.

	Now he with tilts and turnaments
	Was entertained so
	That all the best of Arthur's knights
	Did him much pleasure show.

	As good sir Lancelot of the lake,
	Sir Tristram, and sir Guy;
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	Yet none compar'd with brave Tom     Thumbe
	For knightly chivalry.

	In honour of which noble day,
	And for his ladie's sake,
	A challenge in king Arthur's court
	Tom Thumbe did bravely make.

	'Gainst whom these noble knights did run,
	Sir Chinon, and the res',
	Yet still Tom Thumbe with matchles     might
	Did beare away the best.

	At last sir Lancelot of the Lake
	In manly sort came in,
	And with this stout and hardy knight
	A battle did begin.

	Which made the courtiers all agast,
	For there that valiant man
	Through Lancelot's steed, before them     all,
	In nimble manner ran.

	Yea horse and all, with speare and     shield,
	As hardly he was seene,
	But onely by king Arthur's selfe
	And his admired queene,

	Who from her finger tooke a ring,
	Through which Tom Thumbe made     way,
	Not touching it, in nimble sort,
	As it was done in play.

	He likewise cleft the smallest haire
	From his faire ladie's head,
	Not hurting her whose even hand
	Him lasting honours bred.

	Such were his deeds and noble acts
	In Arthur's court there showne,
	As like in all the world beside
	Was hardly seene or knowne.

	Now at these sports he toyl'd himselfe
	That he a sicknesse tooke,
	Through which all manly exercise
	He carelessly forsooke.

	Where lying on his bed sore sicke,
	King Arthur's doctor, came,
	With cunning skill, by physick's art,
	To ease and cure the same.

	His body being so slender small,
	This cunning doctor tooke
	A fine prospective glasse, with which
	He did in secret looke

	Into his sickened body downe,
	And therein saw that death
	Stood ready in his wasted guts
	To sease his vitall breath.

	His armes and leggs consum'd as small
	As was a spiders web,
	Through which his dying houre grew     on,
	For all his limbes grew dead.

	His face no bigger than an ant's,
	Which hardly could be seene:
	The losse of which renowned knight
	Much griev'd the king and queene.

	And so with peace and quietnesse
	He left this earth below;
	And vp into the Fayry land
	His ghost did fading goe.

	Whereas the fayry queene receiv'd,
	With heauy mourning cheere,
	The body of this valiant knight,
	Whom she esteemed so deere.

	For with her dancing nymphs in greene,
	She fetcht him from his bed,
	With musicke and sweet melody,
	So soone as life was fled:

	For whom king Arthur and his knights
	Full forty daies did mourne;
	And, in remembrance of his name
	That was so strangely borne,

	He built a tomb of marble gray,
	And yeare by yeare did come
	To celebrate the mournefull day,
	And burial of Tom Thumbe

	Whose fame still lieues in England     here,
	Amongst the countrey sort;
	Of whom our wives and children small
	Tell tales of pleasant sport.