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:—
THE COURIER DOVE.
“Va, porter cet écrit à l’objet de mon cœur!”
Outstrip the winds my courier dove!
On pinions fleet and free,
And bear this letter to my love
Who’s far away from me.
It bids him mark thy plume whereon
The changing colours range;
But warns him that my peace is gone
If he should also change.
It tells him thou return’st again
To her who sets thee free;
And O! it asks the truant, when
He’ll thus resemble thee!