Classic Poem

What secret spring had moved this maiden's heart
To save her nation's fee,
At risk of life?
Far rather had he died than live to know
That precious secret was to be his wife.
Too well she knew that now 'twas death from him to part!

At length the lingering weeks of healing passed
He e'en must quit for aye
Her angel tent.
"Take me, Sir knight, to be your slave alway!
O leave me not, or my poor heart is rent!"
She said, and at his feet her tender form she cast.

He bade her rise! then heard her fearful tale--
An orphan doomed to be
A lifelong slave
And serve a tyrant's lust and infamy.
From such, Sir Harold swore he would her save,
Whate'er the cost the deed might to himself entail.