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:--