Now, do you know, I've often thought
The eldest of the two

(She's married, so I may speak out)
Would just have suited you!
You never saw her?-how shall I
My eldest girl portray?

Oh! my second is her counterpart,
And her you'll meet to-day.

WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?

Why don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!

It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That everybody knows;
You fete the finest men in town,
Yet, oh! they won't propose!

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons

I'm ever on the watch;

I've hopes when some distingué beau

A glance upon me throws;

But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt, Alas! he won't propose!

I've tried to win by languishing

And dressing like a blue;

I've bought big books, and talk'd of them
As if I'd read them through!

With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;

But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And, oh! they won't propose!

I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;

I felt convinced that men preferr'd
A simple sort of Miss;

And so I lisp'd out naught beyond
Plain "yeses" or plain "noes,"
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh! they won't propose!

Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout,
I heard Sir Harry Gale
Exclaim, "Now I propose again!"
I started, turning pale;

I really thought my time was come,
I blush'd like any rose;
But, oh! I found 'twas only at
Ecarté he'd propose !

And what is to be done, mamma?

Oh! what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one :

At balls I am too often left
Where spinsters sit in rows;

Why won't the men propose, mamma?
Why won't the men propose?

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, 1802–1839.

WINTHROP MACK WORTH PRAED, son of Mr. Sergeant Praed, was born in London, 1802, and was early sent to Eton School, where he gained high reputation for scholarship and poetic talent. In 1820 appeared a monthly magazine, called The Etonian, to which Praed was the principal contributor. From Eton he went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he distinguished himself by his brilliant talents and scholarship, obtaining the highest prizes both for Greek odes and English poems. He was one of the chief speakers of the famous Cambridge Debating Society called The Union, his most formidable rival being Thomas Babington Macaulay, whom he might have equalled as an orator and historian had not his brilliant career been so early terminated. He was called to the bar in 1829, and was, from 1830 to 1835, elected twice to Parliament, where, in his speeches, he showed great readiness of debating power, as well as keenness of wit. For a short time he was Secretary to the Board of Control, and, had his life been spared, it is probable that some of the most important offices of state would have been within his reach; but he died, of consumption, on the 15th of July, 1839, in his thirty-seventh year.

Most of Praed's poetical pieces were contributed to periodicals. They are for the most part light, fashionable sketches, but are executed with great truth and sprightliness. His very serious pieces, though few, are full of profound thought presented in most graceful and beautiful diction. Still, it is truo that fun, and frolic, and gay, lively satire constituted his special genius: so that with much truth it has been said that his sober poems seem more mechanical, while his nonsense was natural. But in much of his nonsense there is hidden sense of a most instructive character.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE?

My mother's grave, my mother's grave!
Oh! dreamless is her slumber there,

And drowsily the banners wave

O'er her that was so chaste and fair;

on his recovery from a dangerous illness. In these he speaks thus of his mother:

1"The Americans, with their usual quick-years old, Praed wrote some remarkable lines nem, long ago perceived his merits, and pullished his poetical works, but have included in the edition many poems which Praed never wrote." Since the above was written by the anthor of Chambers's Book of Days, a correct and elegant edition of his works, edited by Rev. Derwent Coleridge, has been published by W. J. Widdleton, New York, 1865, in 2 vols.

From The Troubadour. When but six

kindest, best of mothers! May all your days be blest with many comforts, The last of them far distant!"

And though she died the next year, her memory was ever precious to him.

Yea! love is dead, and memory faded!
But when the dew is on the brake,

And silence sleeps on earth and sea,
And mourners weep, and ghosts awake,
Oh! then she cometh back to me,
In her cold beauty darkly shaded!

I cannot guess her face or form;
But what to me is form or face?
I do not ask the weary worm

To give me back each buried grace
Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses!
I only feel that she is here,

And that we meet, and that we part;
And that I drink within mine ear,

And that I clasp around my heart,
Her sweet still voice and soft caresses!

Not in the waking thought by day,

Not in the sightless dream by night,
Do the mild tones and glances play,
Of her who was my cradle's light!
But in some twilight of calm weather,
She glides, by fancy dimly wrought,
A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,
With all the quiet of a thought,

And all the passion of a dream,
Link'd in a golden spell together!

A WINDLASS-A CHARADE.

He who can make my First to roll,
When not a breath is blowing,
May very slightly turn my Whole
To set a mountain going:

He who can curb my Second's will
When she's inclined for roving,
May turn my Whole more slightly still
To cure the moon of moving!

A FOOTPAD-A CHARADE.

The Palmer comes from the Holy Land;
Scarce on my First can the Palmer stand:
The Prior will take the air to-day;
On my Second the Prior trots away:
'Tis pleasanter, under a summer sun,
With robes to ride than with rags to run.

My Whole leap'd out of the road-side ditch,

With "Stand" to the poor man, and "Stand" to the rich:

From the Prior he strips his mantle fair;

From the Palmer he wins but pity and prayer:

'Tis safer, when crime is prowling wide,

With rags to run than with robes to ride.

A GREAT POET-A CHARADE.

Come from my First, ay, come!

The battle dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and the thund'ring drum

Are calling thee to die!

Fight as thy fathers fought,

Fall as thy fathers fell!

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought:

So, forward! and farewell!

Toll ye my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light;

And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!

The helm upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:
So take him to his rest.

Call ye my Whole, go, call!

The lord of lute and lay;

And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day;

Go, call him by his name;
No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.1

TO HELEN.2

What prayer, dear Helen, shall I pray,
On this my brightest holiday,

To the great Giver of all good,

By whom our thoughts are understood,—
Lowly or lofty, wild or weak,-

Long ere the tardy tongue can speak?

For
you, my treasure, let me pray
That, as swift Time shall steal away
Year after year, you ne'er may deem
The radiance of this morning's beam
Less happy-holy-than you know
It dawn'd for us two years ago.

And for our infants let me pray-
Our little precious babes-that they,
Whate'er their lot in future years,
Sorrow or gladness, smiles or tears,
May own whatever is, is just,
And learn their mother's hope and trust.

1 For the solution examine the Fifth Decade. | This was his wife, Helen, daughter of George Bogle, Esq., to whom he was united in the summer of 1835. During the four years of their companionship, she devoted to her hus

band, whose high qualities, intellectual and moral, she was in every way qualified to appre ciate, all the resources of the most assiduous affection. She died 1864.

And for my own heart let me pray
That God may mould me day by day,
By grace descending from above,
More worthy of the joy and love
Which His beneficence divine
On this, my best of days, made mine.

FUIMUS.

Go to the once loved bowers;
Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair:
Winter has been upon the leaves and flowers,-
They were!

Look for the domes of kings;

Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair!
Oblivion sits beside them; mockery sings,
They were!

Waken the minstrel's lute;

Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air:
The chords are broken, and the lips are mute;-
They were!

Visit the great and brave;

Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair.
Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave?—
They were!

Speak to thine own heart; prove

The secrets of thy nature.

What is there?

Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, fond love,—

They were!

We too, we too must fall;

A few brief years to labor and to bear;

Then comes the sexton, and the old trite tale,
"We were!"

THE SABBATH.

For whom was the Sabbath made?-
It brings repose and rest;

It hushes study's aching head,
Ambition's anxious breast:
The slave that digs the mine,

The serf that ploughs the soil,

For them it was ordain'd to shine;

It is for all that toil.

For whom was the Sabbath made?-
It opens the Book of Peace,
Which tells of flowers that never fade,
Of songs that never cease;

1 "We were."