“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.