Were wreathing the orange's bud in thy hair,
And the trumpets were tuning the musical cadence
That gave thee, a bride, to the baronet's heir.

"Farewell, may no thought pierce thy breast of thy treason;
Farewell, and be happy in Hubert's embrace.
Be the belle of the ball, be the bride of the season,
With diamonds bedizened and languid in lace."


This is mine, and I say, with modest pride, that it is quite as good
as -


"Go, may'st thou be happy,
Though sadly we part,
In life's early summer
Grief breaks not the heart.

"The ills that assail us
As speedily pass
As shades o'er a mirror,
Which stain not the glass."


Anybody could do it, we say, in what Edgar Poe calls "the mad pride
of intellectuality," and it certainly looks as if it could be done
by anybody. For example, take Bayly as a moralist. His ideas are
out of the centre. This is about his standard: