To you my heart I must resign, O choose me for your Valentine!
It's that time of the year again when one can post the first (surviving) Valentine's Day's missive in North America, sent by a certain John Graves Simcoe to Sarah "Sally" Townsend on 14 February 1779.
Simcoe, who adorned his poem with two bleeding hearts bearing the initials "J.G.S" and "S.T." pinned together by Cupid's arrow, clearly was in love with her, though, as the poem itself acknowledges, he was aware of the fact that a relationship between them would be difficult; the Townsends, who grudgingly quartered Simcoe, were sympathetic to the rebel cause, to the point the assumption persists that Sarah may have been an informant for her brother Robert Townsend, also known under his intelligence alias Samuel Culper, giving him information on the British she received by cultivating Simcoe's trust.
One such tale goes as far as to name Sarah as the informant who made the capture of John André possible. In the wake of André's execution in Tappan, she supposedly confessed her actions to Simcoe, feeling remorseful that she had helped bring about the death of his close friend. Simcoe, deeply hurt she had betrayed his trust and genuine intentions, is said to have lost interest in her romantically, but still kept her secret.
Of course, the story seems rather a bit over the top; what is known about Sarah is that she was a favourite with British officers stationed in the area, and that she kept Simcoe's poem until her death in 1842. She never married, which caused romantic speculation that Simcoe may have been the love of her life after all. Realistically, I think the sentimental value Sarah clearly felt Simcoe's poem had does not necessarily have romantic connotations; she may have decided to keep it because she felt flattered someone sat down to write a piece of poetry about her, and realistically speaking, how often in one's life does one receive an original, hand-written love poem?
But Sarah would not remain the only lady to treasure a poem written by Simcoe; his wife Elizabeth, an as far as I can tell not infrequent protagonist of his poetry, pinned one she clearly particularly treasured to the pages of her Canadian diary/manuscript which he wrote for her to commemorate their 12th wedding anniversary. If he ever wrote her any Valentine's Day-poetry, I can't tell, but he didn't need any specific occasion to compose some lines about making "my Eliza with true passion burn"- a lot saucier than the comparatively tame poem, which even invokes the virgin goddess Artemis by the epithet "Delia", written to Sarah Townsend (and, of course, he also features the most romantic of all things in the world, urns, as @copper-haired-cuddlebug in particular will be aware of):
Fairest Maid, where all is fair,
Beauty’s pride and Nature’s care;
To you my heart I must resign,
O choose me for your Valentine!
Love, Mighty God! Thou know’st full well,
Where all thy Mother’s graces dwell,
Where they inhabit and combine
To fix thy power with spells divine;
Thou know’st what powerful magick lies
Within the round of Sarah’s eyes,
Or darted thence like lightning fires,
And Heaven’s own joys around inspires;
Thou know’st my heart will always prove
The shrine of pure unchanging love!
Say; awful God! Since to thy throne
Two ways that lead are only known—
Here gay Variety presides,
And many a youthful circle guides
Through paths where lilies, roses sweet,
Bloom and decay beneath their feet;
Here constancy with sober mien
Regardless of the flowery Scene
With Myrtle crowned that never fades,
In silence seeks the Cypress Shades,
Or fixed near Contemplation’s cell,
Chief with the Muses loves to dwell,
Leads those who inward feel and burn
And often clasp the abandon’d urn,–
Say, awful God! Did’st thou not prove
My heart was formed for Constant love?
Thou saw’st me once on every plain
To Delia pour the artless strain—
Thou wept’sd her death and bad’st me change
My happier days no more to range
O’er hill, o’er dale, in sweet Employ,
Of singing Delia, Nature’s joy;
Thou bad’st me change the pastoral scene
Forget my Crook; with haughty mien
To raise the iron Spear of War,
Victim of Grief and deep Despair:
Say, must I all my joys forego
And still maintain this outward show?
Say, shall this breast that’s pained to feel
Be ever clad in horrid steel?
Nor swell with other joys than those
Of conquest o’er unworthy foes?
Shall no fair maid with equal fire
Awake the flames of soft desire:
My bosom born, for transport, burn
And raise my thoughts from Delia’s urn?
“Fond Youth,” the God of Love replies,
“Your answer take from Sarah’s eyes.”
