She passed up the aisle on the arm of her sire,
A delicate lady in bridal attire,—
Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;—
Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,
Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,
But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.
O beautiful Bride, still so meek in thy splendour,
So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender,
Departing you leave us the town dim!
May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,
And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,
Prove worthy thy worship,— confound him!