Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,
As I thought of that Battle-axe, ah! and that crest!
But away with remembrance, no more will I pine,
That others usurped for a time what was mine!
There’s a Festival Hour for my Ulric and me:
Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;
Once more by the side of the knight I love best,
Shall I blazon his Banner and ’broider his crest.
W. M. Thackeray.