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 arial 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.