Classic Poem

So sang Rowena, from her turret bower,
Her plaintive notes each night,
In seamen's ears.
Their hearts sank deep. They long had watched her white
And care-worn cheeks; but now they knew her fears
And wept with her to see the darkling storm-clouds lower.

Meanwhile her red-cross knight was lying prone,
Sore wounded, life nigh spent,
On Acre's plains.
He'd swooned and woke to find him 'neath a tent.
With balm a maiden soothed his throbbing veins.
No other soul came near save she a maid unknown.

Low whispers could he often hear without.
Fresh unctions were applied;
His wounds soon healed.
Whene'er he groaned swift flew she to his side:
At other times the maiden lay concealed.
At last she brought the news of Saladin's great rout.