The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

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And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.
But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,
Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,
And I look to the moment of parting with dread,
For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.
Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!
Thou know'st all its secrets--each joy and each grief;
And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart
To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.
The last of a long and affectionate race,
As thy days are declining I love thee the more,
For I feel that thy loss I can never replace--
That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.
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,