From Britain’s realm, in olden time,
By the strong power of truths sublime.
The pagan rites were banish’d;
And, spite of Greek and Roman lore,
Each god and goddess, fam’d of yore,
From grove and altar vanish’d.
And they (as sure became them best)
To Austin and Paulinius’ hest
Obediently submitted,
And left the land without delay--
Save Cupid, who still held a sway
Too strong to passively obey,
Or be by saints outwitted.
For well the boy-god knew that he
Was far too potent, e’er to be
Depos’d and exil’d quietly
From his belov’d dominion;
And sturdily the urchin swore
He ne’er, to leave the British shore,
Would move a single pinion.
The saints at this were sadly vex’d,
And much their holy brains perplex’d,
To bring the boy to reason;
And, when they found him bent to stay,
They built up convent-walls straightway,
And put poor Love in prison.
But Cupid, though a captive made,
Soon met, within a convent shade,
New subjects in profusion:
Albeit he found his pagan name
Was heard by pious maid and dame
With horror and confusion.
For all were there demure and coy,
And deem’d a rebel heathen boy
A most unsaintly creature;
But Cupid found a way with ease
His slyest vot’ries tastes to please,
And yet not change a feature.
For, by his brightest dart, the elf
Affirm’d he’d turn a saint himself,
To make their scruples lighter;
So gravely hid his dimpled smiles,
His wreathed locks, and playful wiles,
Beneath a bishop’s mitre.
Then Christians rear’d the boy a shrine.
And youths invok’d Saint Valentine
To bless their annual passion;
And maidens still his name revere,
And, smiling, hail his day each year--
A day to village lovers dear,
Though saints are out of fashion.