Comes last. She rises every year on the 22nd of August, and goes to bed,
in her golden palace of the East, on the 21st of September.
ODE TO LOVE.
WRITTEN ON ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.
Oh, Love! how potent is thy sway;
Thou'rt terrible indeed to most men!
But once a year there comes a day,
When thou tormentest chiefly postmen.
Oh, hard indeed the lot must be,
Of him who wears thy galling fetters!
But e'en more miserable he
Who must go round with all thy letters!
When at the door our vision greets
The postman, as he knocking stands;
The hearts of half-a-dozen streets,
Perchance he carries in his hands.
It seems a profanation quite,
That all the sentimental touches
Which lovers hit on when they write,
Should be within a postman's clutches.
Must the affections of the heart,
To trade with which no lover fancies,
Be then degraded to a part
Of England's national finances?
Must all that love has fondly said,
Freely, with no reserve to cramp it,
Require a little square Queen's head
To give it currency and stamp it?
Must sentiment extremely fine
Be down the area rudely cast;
The postman bawling, "Valentine!"
While in the act of going past?
But love will lay the highest low,
Make some, despairing, seek the river
To drown themselves; while many a beau
At sight of Cupid's dart will quiver.