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 aerial 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.

A CURATE’S COMPLAINT.

  Where are they all departed,
    The loved ones of my youth,
  Those emblems white of purity,
    Sweet innocence and truth? 
  When day-light drives the darkness,
    When evening melts to night,
  When noon-day suns burn brightest,
    They come not to my sight.

  I miss their pure embraces
    Around my neck and throat,
  The thousand winning graces
    Whereon I used to dote. 
  I know I may find markets
    Where love is bought and sold,
  But no such love can equal
    The tender ties of old.

  My gentle washer-woman,
    I know that you are true;
  The least shade of suspicion
    Can never fall on you. 
  Then fear me not, as fiercely
    I fix on thee stern eyes,
  And ask in terms emphatic,
    “Where are my lost white ties?”

  Each year I buy a dozen,
    Yet scarce a year is gone,
  Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
    I find that I have none. 
  I don’t believe in magic,
    I know that you are true,
  Yet say, my washer-woman,
    What can those white ties do?

  Does each with her own collar
    To regions far elope,
  Regions by starch untainted,
    And innocent of soap? 
  I know not; but in future
    I’ll buy no more white ties,
  But wear the stiff ‘all-rounder’
    Of Ritualistic guise.