Punch, Volume 110

Front Cover
Mark Lemon, Henry Mayhew, Tom Taylor, Shirley Brooks, Francis Cowley Burnand, Owen Seaman
Punch Publications Limited, 1896 - English wit and humor

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Page 244 - I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky : It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.
Page 231 - THERE is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, Or in wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound ; No voice is hushed — no life treads silently, But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, That never spoke, over the idle ground : But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, Though the dun fox, or wild...
Page 231 - For over all there hung a cloud of fear ; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted...
Page 5 - ... and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves ; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild ; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest — fst!
Page 5 - ... see ; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners — everybody was always goodmannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always — I mean he made it seem like good weather.
Page 231 - IT is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight ; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night ; That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow ; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below ; It is not death...
Page 5 - It was as bright as glory and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about, away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs, where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. "Jim, this is nice,
Page 5 - ... every morning, all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight, and hung to his shoulders.
Page 5 - He was as kind as he could be — you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see ; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards.
Page 53 - Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh ! revere her raven hair ! Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer, — For thou may'st live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn ! STANZAS.

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