Sunday, June 14, 2009

Vicount Sir David Morgan - Fighter Poem

Vicount Sir David Morgan
King's Champion
Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIV*

Into the hall the Lady sweeps
She does not weep
Nor duty slack,
She stood her ground when first she heard,
And took the word
With stiffened back,

"She's cold," some say, and turn aside.
"The Vicount's bride
Doth serve him ill."
They cannot know the strength it took
To wear that look
By force of will.

A final task she can't forestall
A dismal pall
Has gript the room,
As little babes she gathers 'round
To hear the sound
Of life's brief bloom.

"Red as the dawn, black as the night-
An awesome sight,
All will concede.
Thy father fought with head held high
To win or die
For fair Caid."

"Nine warriors fierce he did engage
And battle wage
To gain the crown.
But two did deal him grievous blows,
And in death's throes
He was brought down."

"Think never that he loved ye nought
Nor thee forsloth
To seek this thing.
But know thy father had a plan;
He was the man
Who could be King."

And now she kisses each in turn
And aches to learn
They understand.
At last she can let fall a tear
For one so dear:
David Morgan.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Thoron was the editor

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