Now, do you know, I've often thought (She's married, so I may speak out) Oh! my second is her counterpart, WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE? Why don't the men propose, mamma? It is no fault of yours, mamma, I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, 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 With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, I threw aside the books, and thought I felt convinced that men preferr'd And so I lisp'd out naught beyond Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout, I really thought my time was come, And what is to be done, mamma? Oh! what is to be done? I really have no time to lose, At balls I am too often left Why won't the men propose, mamma? 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! 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! And silence sleeps on earth and sea, I cannot guess her face or form; To give me back each buried grace And that we meet, and that we part; And that I clasp around my heart, Not in the waking thought by day, Not in the sightless dream by night, And all the passion of a dream, A WINDLASS-A CHARADE. He who can make my First to roll, He who can curb my Second's will A FOOTPAD-A CHARADE. The Palmer comes from the Holy Land; 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: Call ye my Whole, go, call! The lord of lute and lay; And let him greet the sable pall Go, call him by his name; To light the flame of a soldier's fame TO HELEN.2 What prayer, dear Helen, shall I pray, To the great Giver of all good, By whom our thoughts are understood,— Long ere the tardy tongue can speak? For And for our infants let me pray- 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 FUIMUS. Go to the once loved bowers; Look for the domes of kings; Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair! Waken the minstrel's lute; Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air: Visit the great and brave; Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair. 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, THE SABBATH. For whom was the Sabbath made?- It hushes study's aching head, 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?- 1 "We were." |