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 aërial 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.