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ANTICIPATION.

H yes! he is in Parliament;

He's been returning thanks ;
You can't conceive the time he's spent

Already on his franks.
He'll think of nothing, night and day,

But place, and the Gazette : No matter what the people say,

You won't believe them yet.

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“He fillid an album, long ago,

With such delicious rhymes ;
Now we shall only see, you know,

His speeches in the Times ;
And liquid tone, and beaming brow,

Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He'll care for no such nonsense now :"

Oh! don't believe them yet!

“I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,

By that disgusting Bill;
He'll never make another pun;

He's danced his last quadrille.
We shall not see him flirt again
With

any fair coquette ; He'll never laugh at Drury Lane :”

Psha !- don't believe them yet.

“ Last week I heard his uncle boast

He's sure to have the seals;
I read it in the • Morning Post'

That he has dined at Peel's;

You'll never see him any more,

He's in a different set ;
He cannot eat at half-past four :”.

No ?_don't believe them yet.

“ In short, he'll soon be false and cold,

And infinitely wise;
He'll grow next year extremely old,

He'll tell enormous lies;
He'll learn to flatter and forsake,

To feign and to forget :”—
O whisper-or my heart will break-
You won't believe them yet!

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

A NICE CORRESPONDENT!

HE glow and the glory are plighted

To darkness, for evening is come ; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are

dumb.
I'm alone in my casement, for Pappy

Is summon’d to dinner at Kew:
I'm alone, dearest Fred, bụt I'm happy-

I'm thinking of you !
I wish you were here! Were I duller

Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am drest in

your favourite colourDear Fred, how I wish you were here ! I am wearing my lazuli necklace,

The necklace you fasten'd askew ! Was there ever so rude and so reckless

A darling as you ?

I want you to come and pass sentence

On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know “ Janet's Repentance”?

I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, The story of Edgar and Lucy,

How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey !

Reminds me of you.

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning

A Poet whose garland endures; It was you who first spouted me Browning,

That stupid old Browning of yours !
His vogue and his verve are alarming,

I'm anxious to give him his due,
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming

A poet as you!

I saw

I heard how you shot at The Beeches,

how

you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches,

And echo'd the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,

Dear Fred, I believe it, I do! Small marvel that Fashion is making

Her idol of you!

Alas for the world, and its dearly

Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss ; Sometimes I half wish I was merely

A plain or a penniless miss ;
But perhaps one is best with "

Of pelf,” and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because 'tis a pleasure,

My darling, to you !

a measure

Your whim is for frolic and fashion,

Your taste is for letters and art ;-
This rhyme is the commonplace passion

That glows in a fond woman's heart:
Lay it by in a dainty deposit

For relics-we all have a few !
Love, some day they'll print it, because it

Was written to you.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

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AMENT, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page,

Debrett,

For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet. Beside him place the God of Wit,

Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a star he'd quit,

And Love's own sister for an Earl's.
Did niggard fate no peers afford,

He took, of course, to peer's relations ;
And, rather than not sport a Lord,
Put
up

with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em

With “ Lord” and “Duke,” were sweet to call; And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum

Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook,

For, rest his soul! he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than say'd in vulgar company.

THOMAS MOORE.

6. WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE ?ZHY 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

or plain “noes," And wore a sweet unmeaning smile ;

Yet, oh, they won't propose !

Plain “yeses

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