MACAULAY’S VALENTINE.
The following valentine from Lord Macaulay to the Hon. Mary C. Stanhope, daughter of Lord and Lady Mahon, 1851, is worthy of being preserved for the sake as much of its author as of its own merits:—
Hail, day of music, day of love!
On earth below, and air above.
In air the turtle fondly moans,
The linnet pipes in joyous tones:
On earth the postman toils along,
Bent double by huge bales of song.
Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye,
Blazes all Cupid’s heraldry—
Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows,
Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows.
What nymph without wild hopes and fears
The double-rap this morning hears?
Unnumbered lasses, young and fair,
From Bethnel Green to Belgrave Square,
With cheeks high flushed, and hearts loud beating,
Await the tender annual greeting.
The loveliest lass of all is mine—
Good morrow to my Valentine!
Good morrow, gentle child: and then,
Again good morrow, and again,
Good morrow following still good morrow,
Without one cloud of strife or sorrow.
And when the god to whom we pay
In jest our homages to-day
Shall come to claim no more in jest,
His rightful empire o’er thy breast,
Benignant may his aspect be,
His yoke the truest liberty:
And if a tear his power confess,
Be it a tear of happiness.
It shall be so. The Muse displays
The future to her votary’s gaze:
Prophetic range my bosom swells—
I taste the cake—I hear the bells!
From Conduit street the close array
Of chariots barricades the way
To where I see, with outstretched hand,
Majestic thy great kinsman stand,[[21]]
And half unbend his brow of pride,
As welcoming so fair a bride;
Gay favors, thick as flakes of snow,
Brighten St. George’s portico:
Within I see the chancel’s pale,
The orange flowers, the Brussels veil,
The page on which those fingers white,
Still trembling from the awful rite,
For the last time shall faintly trace
The name of Stanhope’s noble race.
I see kind faces round thee pressing,
I hear kind voices whisper blessing:
And with those voices mingles mine—
All good attend my Valentine!
St. Valentine’s Day, 1851.
T. B. Macaulay.
Very tender are Burns’ verses to his ladie loves. For instance:—
Oh! were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise
If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or, were I monarch of the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.