“Toi qui as veu l’excellence de celle
     Qui rend le ciel de l’Escosse envieux,
     Dy hardiment, contentez vous mes yeux,
     Vous ne verrez jamais chose plus belle."*

     * Quoted in Mignet’s “Life of Mary.”

“Vous ne verrez jamais chose plus belle.”  Here is an Alexandrine written three hundred years ago, as simple as bon jour.  Professor Aytoun is more ornate.  After elegantly complimenting the spring, and a description of her Royal Highness’s well-known ancestors the “Berserkers,” he bursts forth—­

     “The Rose of Denmark comes, the Royal Bride! 
     O loveliest Rose! our paragon and pride—­
     Choice of the Prince whom England holds so dear—­
     What homage shall we pay
     To one who has no peer? 
     What can the bard or wildered minstrel say
     More than the peasant who on bended knee
     Breathes from his heart an earnest prayer for thee? 
     Words are not fair, if that they would express
     Is fairer still; so lovers in dismay
     Stand all abashed before that loveliness
     They worship most, but find no words to pray. 
     Too sweet for incense! (bravo!) Take our loves instead—­
     Most freely, truly, and devoutly given;
     Our prayer for blessings on that gentle head,
     For earthly happiness and rest in Heaven! 
     May never sorrow dim those dove-like eyes,
     But peace as pure as reigned in Paradise,
     Calm and untainted on creation’s eve,
     Attend thee still!  May holy angels,” &c.

This is all very well, my dear country cousins.  But will you say “Amen” to this prayer?  I won’t.  Assuredly our fair Princess will shed many tears out of the “dovelike eyes,” or the heart will be little worth.  Is she to know no parting, no care, no anxious longing, no tender watches by the sick, to deplore no friends and kindred, and feel no grief?  Heaven forbid!  When a bard or wildered minstrel writes so, best accept his own confession, that he is losing his head.  On the day of her entrance into London who looked more bright and happy than the Princess?  On the day of the marriage, the fair face wore its marks of care already, and looked out quite grave, and frightened almost, under the wreaths and lace and orange-flowers.  Would you have had her feel no tremor?  A maiden on the bridegroom’s threshold, a Princess led up to the steps of a throne?  I think her pallor and doubt became her as well as her smiles.  That, I can tell you, was our vote who sat in X compartment, let us say, in the nave of St. George’s Chapel at Windsor, and saw a part of one of the brightest ceremonies ever performed there.