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 aerial 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.