| Transcript or Index | My Dear Sir,
On the other leaf you will find the Valentine of which your ungallant remarks on my insignificance have so often reminded me. I have also copied out for you a few lines which formed part of a scientific burlesque Romance, in which I engaged with Mrs Niven and Mr Henry Elliott for the Attic Chest some few years back. They seemed to me so applicable to our conversation the other morning that I could not resist the temptation of sending them, and to own the truth they are rather pets with me. The Magnet, one might think had arisen from our recent discussions, but it was there long before I knew you.
ever your affectionate
Eleanor Anne Porden
July 12th 1823
Olivia to Philemon.
Nay! Think not ‘tis Vanity flushes my cheek
And beams in my eye when my praises you speak,
Yet surely the bosom no pleasure can prove
Like the accents of praise from the lips that we love.
When flatterers surround me, I heed not their strain,
Their honey and fragrance are wasted in vain,
I may smile at their words, but no joy they impart,
They ring in the ear, but they reach not the heart.
But from friends of my soul, friends long cherished & dear,
Whose judgement I prize, and whose words are sincere,
Their praises are like the rich dews of the East,
They fall softly and slow, but sink deep in my breast.
Such, Philemon, are thine, and though fickle I seem
And gay as the mote that sports light in the beam,
Though partial attractions at times may control,
My heart, like the Magnet, still points to its Pole.
With others if oft I seem happy and free,
I shine but with lustre reflected from thee;
Like the Bee, still from blossom to blossom I roam,
But collect all their nectar to furnish my home.
EAP.
Valentine – sent to Miss Flaxman
Author Unknown.
Where anything abounds, we find
That nobody will have it,
But when there’s little of the kind
Don’t all the people crave it.
If wives are evils, as ‘tis known
And wretchedly confest,
A man of sense will surely own
A little one is best.
The God of Love’s a little wight
But beautiful as thought –
Thou too art little, fair as light,
And every thing, in short.
Oh! happy girl! – I think thee so,
For mark the poet’s song,
“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little, long.”
[Addressed to]
Captain Franklin
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