they have trodden, and guided by the heavenly Hand which guided them, we ourselves may reach that land, and dwell with them in everlasting glory*"

* Professor Sedgwick's Discourse on the Studies of the University, 4th ed., p. 5.

PRAED AND HIS CHANSONS.

Vir perelegantis ingenii, et mollissima dulcedine carminum memorabilis.-Velleius Paterculus.

THE Conclusion of the eulogy bestowed upon the old Grecian, Hesiod, quietis otiique cupidissimus, must, I fear, be omitted from the motto. The Carlton Club is dearer to the Member for Yarmouth than the Muses' Bower. Those days when it was pleasant with Spenser to play with

The flowers of a golden tress,

are faded and past. He cons an estimate instead of a sonnet, and prefers a gallop with Sir Francis Head through a Poor Law Commission to a Midsummer Night's Dream on Parnassus. Political life must have its charms, as it has its uses,-call it advancement if you will; but to me it seems, as it did to Shenstone while tying up his flowers at the Leasowes, only an advancement from the pit to the gallery, a very noisy elevation! But Mr. Praed has made his choice: yet he ought to remember that one poet of rare sensibility and genius, after serving fourteen years for Rachel, found himself deprived even of Leah*.

* See Cowley's Complaint.

His name is to me associated with

many delicious recollections. I have followed him from Eton to Trinity; from the Union to St. Stephen's; from his first onset in the Etonian, to his more finished efforts in Knight's Quarterly. I have laughed at his hits, truly "to the point," in the London, with the "Best Bat in the School;" and traced his retrograde movement through the Greek alphabet, from to ; as the author of Lillian, or as Peregrine Courtney, as the Lyrist of the Gem, or the New Monthly; as the Wit of Cambridge, or of the Morning Post,-he has been equally lively and equally agreeable. But he is now mingling in the busy turmoil of political agitation; and I expect every day to lose him in the crowd. It is, indeed, too late to hope for a conversion; but he may at least console us by collecting his rhymes. Having taken leave of the Muses, he may present us with his lyre; and though it does not rejoice in many strings, its tone is sweet and tender. Leaving to other bards to stir the soul, as with the sound of the trumpet, he satisfies his ambition with soothing and delighting his hearers. He combines the mirth, the grace, and the fancy of Marôt. He is a natural Moore. The following poems, the remembrances of happier years, may not support this commendation; but that will be the fault of my memory, not of Mr. Praed's genius.

MADELINE.

Viens! on dirait, Madeleine,
Que le printemps, dont l'haleine
Donne aux roses leurs couleurs,
A cette nuit, pour te plaire,
Secoué sur la bruyère

Sa robe pleine de fleurs.-Victor Hugo.

COME forth, pretty Madeline,
Lo! the pleasant breath of May

Sweetens every field to day;
Never hath a fairer Night

Closed the dewy eyes of Light;

Come forth while the moon-beams shine

On the pale grass, Madeline.

Oh! that I were, sweet Madeline,
The happy Monk of Tombeline,
When half in hope, and half in fear,
Thy red lips breathe into his ear
Little trespasses that twine

Round thy meek heart, Madeline.

If I had, fair Madeline,

The soft eye of the evening star,
How quickly from my home afar,
Into thy chamber would I shine;
While from that snowy breast of thine

Rustles the white lawn, Madeline!

Listen, gentle Madeline!

Listen, listen, unto me;

And thy happy home shall be
Throng'd with many a vassal bold,
Sir Hubert and Sir Leoline,
And beauteous page in vest of gold,
To watch thy sweet eyes, Madeline!

And we will pitch our pleasant tent
Beneath an over-hanging tree,
Where hunter's bow was never bent,
In haunted glades of Faëry;
And I will sit by thee, and twine
Odorous garlands for the shrine
Of thy white hand, Madeline!

Or if thou lovest to recline

In darken'd chamber, faint with flowers-
What care I for sunny hours,

Or Summer light, when thou art mine,
Glowing, blushing, Madeline!

And if thou wilt, young Madeline,
For woodland chaplet thou shalt wear
A glittering crown upon thy hair,
And pearls about thy brow divine!
Sweetest, dearest, Madeline!