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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A Wedding March
Work rating: Low

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!
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