Seize her--yet treat the nymph divine With gentle usage, _Valentine_! Then, tell her, she, for what was done, Must bring _my_ heart, and give _her own_. So pleasant, so descriptive an illustration of the present custom, requires a companion equally amiable: MY VALENTINE. Mark’d you her eye’s resistless glance, That does the enraptur’d soul entrance? Mark’d you that dark blue orb unfold Volumes of bliss as yet untold? And felt you not, as I now feel, Delight no tongue could e’er reveal? Mark’d you her cheek that blooms and glows A living emblem of the rose? Mark’d you her vernal lip that breathes The balmy fragrance of its leaves? And felt you not, as I now feel, Delight no tongue can e’er reveal? Mark’d you her artless smiles that speak The language written on her cheek, Where, bright as morn, and pure as dew, The bosom’s thoughts arise to view? And felt you not, as I now feel, Delight no tongue could e’er reveal? Mark’d you her face, and did not there, Sense, softness, sweetness, all appear? Mark’d you her form, and saw not you A heart and mind as lovely too? And felt you not, as I now feel, Delight no tongue could e’er reveal? Mark’d you all this, and you have known The treasured raptures that I own; Mark’d you all this, and you like me, Have wandered oft her shade to see, For you have felt, as I now feel, Delight no tongue could e’er reveal? _High Wycombe._ Every lady will bear witness that the roll of valentine poesy is interminable; and it being presumed that few would object to a peep in the editor’s budget, he offers a little piece, written, at the desire of a lady, under an engraving, which represented a girl fastening a letter to the neck of a pigeon:-- THE COURIER DOVE. “Va, porter cet écrit à l’objet de mon cœur!” Outstrip the winds my courier dove! On pinions fleet and free, And bear this letter to my love Who’s far away from me. It bids him mark thy plume whereon The changing colours range; But warns him that my peace is gone If he should also change. It tells him thou return’st again To her who sets thee free; And O! it asks the truant, when He’ll thus resemble thee! Lastly, from “Sixty-five Poems and Sonnets,” &c. recently published, he ventures to extract one not less deserving the honour of perusal, than either that he has presented:-- A VALENTINE. No tales of love to you I send, No hidden flame discover, I glory in the name of friend, Disclaiming that of lover. And now, while each fond sighing youth Repeats his vows of love and truth, Attend to this advice of mine-- With caution choose a VALENTINE.