But Blancford on that morn was gay, With many a pennon bright, And glittering arms and panoply Shone in the morning light. For good Prince Edward, England’s pride, Now lay in Blancford’s towers, And weary sickness had consumed, The hero’s winter hours. But now that brighter hopes had come, With summer’s brighter ray, He called his gallant knights around, To spend a festal day. With tournament and revelry, To pass away the hours, And win fair Mary from her sire, The Lord of Blancford’s towers. But why fair Mary’s brow was sad None in the castle knew, Nor why she watched one garden bed, Where none but wild pinks grew. Some said that seven nights before A page had sped away, To where Lord Clifford with his power, On Touraine’s frontier lay. To Blancford no Lord Clifford came, And many a tale was told, For well ’twas known that he had sought, Fair Mary’s love of old. And some there said Lord Clifford’s love Had cooled at Mary’s pride, And some there said that other vows His heart inconstant tied. Foul slander, ready still to soil, All that is bright and fair, With more than Time’s destructiveness, Who never learned to spare. The morn was bright, but posts had come, Bringing no tidings fair, For knit was Edward’s royal brow, And full of thoughtful care. The lists were set, the parted sun Shone equal on the plain, And many a knight there manfully Strove fresh applause to gain. Sir Henry Talbot, and Sir Guy Of Brackenbury, he Who slew the giant Iron-arm, On Cressy’s famous lea, Were counted best, and claimed the Prince To give the sign that they Might run the tilt, and one receive The honors of the day. "Speed, knights, perhaps those arms that shine In peace," prince Edward said, "Before a se’nnight pass, may well, In Gallic blood be died. "For here we learn that hostile bands, Have gathered in Touraine, And Clifford, with his little troop, Are prisoners or slain. "For with five hundred spears, how bold Soe’er his courage show, He never could withstand the shock, Of such a host of foe." Fair Mary spoke not, but the blood Fled truant from her cheek, And left it pale, as when day leaves Some mountain’s snowy peak. But then there camp the cry of horse, The east lea pricking o’er, And to the lists a weary page A tattered pennon bore. Fast came a knight with blood-stained arms, And dusty panoply, And beaver down, and armed lance, In chivalric array. No crest, no arms, no gay device, Upon his shield he wore, But a small knot beside his plume, Of plain wild pinks he bore. For love, for love and chivalry, Lord Clifford rides the plain, And foul he lies who dares to say, His honor e’er know stain.