And when at last, with priestly pray’r
And music mingling in the air,
The nuptial knot was tied,
Sir Grover, flaming crimson red—
“Soothly, it is my mind,” he said,
“That I salute the bride!”
Whereat upon her virgin cheek,
So smooth, so plump, and comely eke,
He did implant a smack
So lusty that the walls around
Gave such an echo to the sound
As they had like to crack.
No modern salutation this—
No mincing, maudling mugwump kiss
To chill a bride’s felicity;
Exploding on that blushing cheek,
Its virile clamor did bespeak
Arcadian simplicity.