  No. II. February, 1837. Our Valentine. With a frozen old saint, our Miscellany quaint We headed last month in a jolly, gay song; It was fit that a priest should say grace to the feast Before any layman should stick in a prong. But now we've no need for the dark-flowing weed Of a padre to hallow our frolics so fine; 'Tis a bishop, this moon, is to set us in tune— And his name you know, maidens, is Saint Valentine. So, love to our ladies from Lapland to Cadiz, From the Tropics to Poles, (be the same more or less)— But we know that in print they will ne'er take the hint Half as soft and as sweet as in perfumed MS. And we wish that we knew any fair one as true As to think all we're writing superb and divine, At her feet should we lay—not a word about pay— Our work as her tribute on Saint Valentine. Yet why but to one should our homage be done? We pay it to all whose smiles lighten out art: To Edgeworth, to Morgan, to Baillie's deep organ, To Hall's Irish pathos, to Norton's soft heart, To the Countess so rare, to Costello the fair, To Miss L. E. L., to high-born Emmeline; But a truce to more names—Take this, darling dames, Sweet friends of the pen, as our first Valentine. W. M. |
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