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.