Classic Poem

The news soon spread from coast to country round
That lost was every soul.
At Wynnwood Hall,
Sir Harold's home, their grief knew no control.
That he should be the first Wynn not to fall
In battle's heated fray; but should be basely drowned!

His helmet, cloak, and sword he'd cast aside,
To save the girl who clung
Around his neck.
These relics dear were found and silent hung
Beneath the rest. None sought grief's tears to check
To see the blood-stained cross for which he'd fought and died.

Alack! The ill-starred news had reach the shrine
Where sat mid birds and flowers,
His new-born bride.
To her the lead-winged moments seemed as hours;
And yet her bounding hope her baleful fears belied.
What tidings would morn bring. O could she but divine!