A Valentine.

    O how shall I write a love-ditty
        To my Alice on Valentine's day?
    How win the affection or pity
        Of a being so lively and gay?
    For I'm an unpicturesque creature,
        Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze
    Without a respectable feature,
        With a squint and a very queer nose.

    But she is a being seraphic,
        Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;
    Who can talk in a manner most graphic
        Every possible language on earth.
    When she's roaming in regions Italic,
        You would think her a fair Florentine;
    She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
        Better far than Rousseau or Racine.

    She sings - sweeter far than a cymbal
        (A sound which I never have heard);
    She plays - and her fingers most nimble
        Make music more soft than a bird.
    She speaks - 'tis like melody stealing
        O'er the Mediterranean sea;
    She smiles - I am instantly kneeling
        On each gouty and corpulent knee.

    'Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven
        (Where else it should shine I don't know),
    And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven
        Are winking at mortals below:
    Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,
        My heart they will ne'er lead astray;
    Nor the soft silken memories sever,
        Which bind me to Alice De Grey.

    If I roam thro' the dim Coliseum,
        Her fairy form follows me there;
    If I list to the solemn "Te Deum,"
        Her voice seems to join in the prayer.
    "Sweet spirit" I seem to remember,
        O would she were near me to hum it;
    As I heard her in sunny September,
        On the Rigi's aërial summit!

    O Alice where art thou?    No answer
        Comes to cheer my disconsolate heart;
    Perhaps she has married a lancer,
        Or a bishop, or baronet smart;
    Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room,
        She is dancing, nor thinking of me;
    Or riding in front of a small groom;
        Or tossed in a tempest at sea;

    Or listening to sweet Donizetti,
        In Venice, or Rome, or La Scala;
    Or walking alone on a jetty;
        Or buttering bread in a parlour;
    Perhaps, at our next merry meeting,
        She will find me dull, married, and gray;
    So I'll send her this juvenile greeting
        On the Eve of St. Valentine's day.