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.