Yet do not mourn. Although above thee Never more shall parent brood. Know, dainty darling! that I love thee Dearly as thy mother could. 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 glittering 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. PUNCH. Oh! 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, When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine; And now it gives my heart relief In sorrow's darksome hour--to dine! THE SICK CHILD. [BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.] PUNCH. A weakness seizes on my mind--I would more pudding take; But all in vain--I feel--I feel--my little head will ache. Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am, And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam. I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more, Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me, In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea. It may be so--I can not tell--I yet may do without; They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about. I long to eat that potted beef--to taste that apple-pie; I long--I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try. I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much; Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch. Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear, My brain swims round--I feel it all--mother, your child is queer! THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS. PUNCH.