No, not in the halls of the noble and proud,
Where Fashion assembles her glittering crowd,
Where all is in beauty and splendor arrayed,
Were the nuptials performed of the meek Quaker maid.
Nor yet in the temple those rites which she took,—
By the altar, the mitre-crowned bishop and book,
Where oft in her jewels stands proudly the bride,...
“you know, my friends, with what a brave carouse
I made a second marriage in my house,—
Divorced old barren Reason from my bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse.”
So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam
Of light that made her like an angel seem,
The Daughter of the Vine said: “I myself
Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream...
“dame, how the moments go—
And the bride is not ready!
Call all her tiring maids,
Paul, Jean, and Thedie.
Is this your robe, my dear?
Faith, but she ’s steady!
The bridegroom is blest who gets
Such a brave lady.”
“Pardi! That throat is fair—
How he will kiss it!
Here is your kerchief, girl;
...
From “a Ballad upon a Wedding”
* * * * *THE MAID, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
Could ever yet produce:
No grape that ’s kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they...
From an Old Song, “Woo’d and Married and a’”
THE BRIDE she is winsome and bonny,
Her hair it is snooded sae sleek,
And faithfu’ and kind is her Johnny,
Yet fast fa’ the tears on her cheek.
New pearlins 1 are cause of her sorrow,
New pearlins and plenishing too;
The bride that has a’ to borrow
Has e’en right mickle ado....
From Punch
Being a Mathematical Madrigal in the Simplest Form
CHARMER, on a given straight line,
And which we will call B C,
Meeting at a common point A,
Draw the lines A C, A B.
But, my sweetest, so arrange it
That they ’re equal, all the three;
Then you ’ll find that, in the sequel,
All their angles, too are equal....
Circumference thou Bride of Awe
Possessing thou shalt be
Possessed by every hallowed Knight
That dares to covet thee
I came, but she was gone. In her fair home,
There lay her lute, just as she touched it last,
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Fill'd with pure fragrance. On her favourite seat
Lay the still open work-box, and that book
Which last she read, its pencil'd margin...
