Shall I crown with my worship, for fame’s sake, Some goddess whom Fashion has starr’d, Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake. Or pray for a _pas_ with Brocard? Shall I flirt, in romantic idea, With Chester’s adorable clay, Or whisper in transport, “Si mea[51] Cum Vestris----” on Valentine’s Day? Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia, Whom no one e’er saw or may see, A fancy-drawn Laura Amelia, An _ad libit._ Anna Marie? Shall I court an initial with stars to it, Go mad for a G. or a J. Get Bishop to put a few bars to it, And print it on Valentine’s Day? Alas! ere I’m properly frantic With some such pure figment as this. Some visions, not quite so romantic, Start up to demolish the bliss; Some Will o’ the Wisp in a bonnet Still leads my lost wit quite astray, Till up to my ears in a sonnet I sink upon Valentine’s Day. The Dian I half bought a ring for, On seeing her thrown in the ring; The Naiad I took such a spring for, From Waterloo Bridge, in the spring; The trembler I saved from a robber, on My walk to the Champs Elysée!-- The warbler that fainted at Oberon, Three months before Valentine’s Day. The gipsy I once had a spill with, Bad lack to the Paddington team! The countess I chanced to be ill with From Dover to Calais by steam; The lass that makes tea for Sir Stephen, The lassie that brings in the tray; It’s odd--but the betting is even Between them on Valentine’s Day. The white hands I help’d in their nutting; The fair neck I cloak’d in the rain; The bright eyes that thank’d me for cutting My friend in Emmanuel-lane; The Blue that admires Mr. Barrow; The Saint that adores Lewis Way; The Nameless that dated from Harrow Three couplets last Valentine’s Day. I think not of Laura the witty, For, oh! she is married at York! I sigh not for Rose of the City, For, ah! she is buried at Cork! Adèle has a braver and better To say what I never could say; Louise cannot construe a letter Of English on Valentine’s Day. So perish the leaves in the arbour, The tree is all bare in the blast! Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour, I come to thee, Lady, at last. Where art thou so lovely and lonely? Though idle the lute and the lay, The lute and the lay are thine only, My fairest, on Valentine’s Day. For thee I have open’d my Blackstone, For thee I have shut up myself; Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton, And laid my short whist on the shelf; For thee I have sold my old Sherry, For thee I have burn’d my new play; And I grow philosophical--very! Except upon Valentine’s Day. Φ New Monthly Magazine. * * * * *