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.

"He fill'd 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;

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, but 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 colour-
Dear 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 heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw 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 "

a measure

Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because 'tis a pleasure,
My darling, to you!

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.

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 sav'd in vulgar company.

THOMAS MOORE.

"WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?"

W

HY 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 fête 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!