The Epic.

"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.