A Wedding March
Poem By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Clash your cymbals, maids, to--day.
Chaunt the praise of Cynthia.
You, her virgins, yokeless, free,
Young Time's choice, his brides--to--be.
Nymphs in white, who hand in hand
Next to her high altar stand,
Take your timbrels, strike your strings;
Tune them to Love's clamourings.
Heralds be of her your fairest,
Her of rarities the rarest.
Instant all her laud rehearse,
Idol of your universe;
And thus armed stand forth and say,
``All is nought but Cynthia.''
Clash your cymbals. Beat your drums.
Cynthia in her glory comes,
High with him whose duty is
Her to lead to a new bliss.
Ah, what fortune his to be
Angel of her ecstasy!
Red with roses Love's path lies,
Rich in rainbows of surprise.
They that tread it wiser are
Than the wise kings with their star,
Eve and morn who went pursuing
Eve's old hopes to Time's undoing,
Robbing Time of his vain wrath.
Run to Love; take all he hath,
Idle maids! Nay, shout and sing,
In Love's praise new chorusing,
Stintless this thrice happy day.
Shout aloud for Cynthia!