There is a tear more scalding than the brine
That streams from out the fountain of the eye,
And like the lava leaves a scorched line,

As in its fiery course it rusheth by.

What is that madness? Is it envy, hate,

Or jealousy more cruel than the grave, With all the attendants that upon it wait

And make the victim now despair, now rave?

It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief,

Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner,
The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef,
And spilt the tart--in short, she's dish'd the dinner!"

THE BANDIT'S FATE.

PUNCH.

He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met,
His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet,
His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,
Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone-
I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore;
His salary, he told me, was lower than before;
And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain,
To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again.
I saw it but a moment-and I wish I saw it now-
As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there;
His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair:
He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,
He can not liquidate his "chalk,” or wipe away his beer.

I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

THOUGH largely developed's my organ of order,
And though I possess my destructiveness small,
On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border,
If thus you are deaf to my vehement call.

For thee veneration is daily extending,

PUNCH.

On a head that for want of it once was quite flat;

If thus with my passion I find you contending,
My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat.

I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest ;
For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved,
I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest;

But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!

I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead
I'll send unto thee;-then upon thee I'll call.
Rejection-alas! to the lover how horrid-

When 'tis passion that spurs-him, 'tis bitter as gall.

THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE.

I LOVE thee, Mary, and thou lovest me—
Our mutual flame is like th' affinity

That doth exist between two simple bodies:
I am Potassium to thine Oxygen.

'Tis little that the holy marriage vow

Shall shortly make us one.

Is, after all, but metaphysical.

That unity

O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid,

A living acid; thou an alkali

PUNCH.

Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together,

We both might coalesce into one salt,

One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou
Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen;
We would unite to form olefiant gas,

Or common coal, or naphtha-would to heaven
That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime '
And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret.
I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid,

So that thou might be Soda. In that case

We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia
Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom.
Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis,
Our happy union should that compound form,
Nitrate of Potash-otherwise Saltpeter.
And thus our several natures sweetly blent,
We'd live and love together, until death
Should decompose the fleshly tertium quid,
Leaving our souls to all eternity

Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs

And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we

Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?

We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh,

When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.

A BALLAD OF BEDLAM.

O, LADY wake!--the azure moon
Is rippling in the verdant skies,
The owl is warbling his soft tune,
Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.
The joys of future years are past,
To-morrow's hopes have fled away;
Still let us love, and e'en at last,
We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night
Drives off the ebon morn afar,
While through the murmur of the light
The huntsman winds his mad guitar.
Then, lady, wake! my brigantine

Pants, neighs, and prances to be free;
Till the creation I am thine,

To some rich desert fly with me.

PUNCH.

STANZAS TO AN EGG.

[BY A SPOON.]

PLEDGE of a feather'd pair's affection,

Kidnapped in thy downy nest,

Soon for my breakfast-sad reflection !—
Must thou in yon pot be drest.

What are the feelings of thy mother?
Poor bereaved, unhappy hen!

Though she may lay, perchance, another,
Thee she ne'er will see again.

Yet do not mourn. Although above thee
Never more shall parent brood,

Know, dainty darling! that I love thee
Dearly as thy mother could.

PUNCH.

A FRAGMENT.

PUNCH.

His eye was stern and wild,—his cheek was pale and cold as

clay;

Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay ;

He mused awhile-but not in doubt-no trace of doubt was

there;

It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.

Once more he look'd upon the scroll-once more its words he

read

Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread.
I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel,
And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel!
A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,—
I could not stir-I could not cry-I felt benumb'd and dead;
Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er;
I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

Again I looked,—a fearful change across his face had pass'd→→
He seem'd to rave, -on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast;
He raised on high the glitteirng blade—then first I found a

tongue

“Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I

sprung;

He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave; And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to shave!

EATING SONG.

Оn! carve me yet another slice,

O help me to more gravy still,

There's naught so sure as something nice
To conquer care, or grief to kill.

I always loved a bit of beef,

PUNCH.

When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine;

And now it gives my heart relief

In sorrow's darksome hour-to dine!