Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years, I can not--I will not--forget what thou wert! While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears, In fancy will wash thee once more--MY LAST SHIRT. GRUB-STREET. MADNESS. PUNCH. There is a madness of the heart, not head-- That in some bosoms wages endless war; There is a throe when other pangs are dead, That shakes the system to its utmost core. 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. 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. LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE. BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS. PUNCH. Stiff are the warrior's muscles, Congeal'd, alas! his chyle; No more in hostile tussles Will he excite his bile. Dry is the epidermis, A vein no longer bleeds-- And the communis vermis Upon the warrior feeds. Compress'd, alas! the thorax, That throbbed with joy or pain; Not e'en a dose of borax Could make it throb again. Dried up the warrior's throat is, All shatter'd too, his head: Still is the epiglottis-- The warrior is dead. THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS. PUNCH. 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