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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
183
THE EPIC
“To arms!” the battle bugles blew.
The daughter of their Chief was she,—
Lord of a thousand spears and true;—
He but a squire of low degree.
The daughter of their Chief was she,—
Lord of a thousand spears 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!”
He kissed her mouth; her face was white:
“God grant they bear thee back no corse!”
“God give I win my spurs to-night!”
The watch-towers' blazing beacons scarred
With blood-red wounds the face of night:
She heard men gallop battleward;
She saw their armor gleam with light.
With blood-red wounds the face of night:
She heard men gallop battleward;
She saw their armor gleam with light.
“My God, deliver me and mine!
My child! my love!”—all night she prayed:
She watched the battle beacons shine;
She watched the battle beacons fade. . . .
My child! my love!”—all night she prayed:
She watched the battle beacons shine;
She watched the battle beacons fade. . . .
184
They brought him on a bier of spears.—
For him, the death-won spurs and name;
For her, the grief of lonely years,
And donjon walls to hide her shame.
For him, the death-won spurs and name;
For her, the grief of lonely years,
And donjon walls to hide her shame.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |