The Epic

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"To arms!" the battle bugles blew.
  The daughter of their Earl was she,
  Lord of a thousand swords and true;
  He but a squire of low degree.

  The horns of war blew up to horse:
  He kissed her mouth; her face was white;
  "God grant they bear thee back no corse!"--
  "God give I win my spurs to-night!"

  Each watch-tower's blazing beacon scarred
  A blood-blot in the wounded dark:
  She heard knights gallop battleward,
  And from the turret leaned to mark.

  "My God, deliver me and mine!
  My child! my God!" all night she prayed:
  She saw the battle beacons shine;
  She saw the battle beacons fade.

  They brought him on a bier of spears.--
  For him--the death-won spurs and name;
  For her--the sting of secret tears,
  And convent walls to hide her shame.

© Madison Julius Cawein