Rowena & Harold Part 1

Rowena & Harold.

by Wm. Stephen Pryer.

Old Ragnor's Cliffs.

Like some horrific Gorgon's mammoth skull, Thrown up by t.i.tan spade, From out those caves Where saurians with mastodons had played, Before the sea had made their homes their graves, And scared their ghosts with screech of sea-born mew and gull,

Is Ragnor's beetling brow, the seaman's dread, That scowls by night and day On that same sea And with earth-shaking sound is heard to say,-- Which sound the waves roll back with mocking glee-- "What! Not enough of life ye must e'en have the dead?"

The ragged remnants of an ancient crown Adorn his kingly head: 'Tis Hastyngs' Tower.

Here dwelt a maiden fair, so fair, 'tis said, That suitors rich and princely sought her bower, To sue in vain: whereat her father's haughty brow would frown.

Sir Guy de Warre.

Like Ragnor's rocks. He swore that she should wed Sir Ralph of Normanhurst, His sister's son.

Would not the Holy Church deem her accursed, Dared she defy his will and marry one Of her own choice! Were't so, 'twere better she were dead!

"Dear father, mine," Rowena pleaded sore, On bended knee, "The heart Belongs to G.o.d.

To wed where hallowed love can have no part Were sin, deserving His all-chastening rod, Whose blessing on such tie 'twere impious to implore."

"Sir Guy, my spouse, a mother's prayers, I too Would blend with hers. O yield, Our only child, Possession sweet of woman's holy field-- Affection's glebe--a virgin soil denied When wedlock makes those one whose hearts can ne'er beat true."

Sir Harold Wynn.

Sir Guy de Warre, the fair Rowena's sire, Of haughty Norman birth, With pure descent, Held Saxon, high or low, as sc.u.m of earth; And deemed his name more worth and honour lent, Than line directly traced from Alfred could inspire.

Dark-visaged man, his countenance repelled; His restless eyes flashed fire; His voice sent dread Through every soul that felt his fearful ire.

At its fell sound both beast and children fled.

Rowena, with her mother, hid till it had quelled.

Sir Harold dared his daughter's hand to seek!

No word the fierce knight spake But ope'd the door, And, scowling, said--"No Saxon churl shall make Rowena wife; and dare he woo her more, Upon him, would Sir Guy a direful vengeance wreak."

Sir Harold Spurned.

To sue and lose, his knightly soul might bear; But insult galled him sore.

Should he imbrue His puissant sword in her own father's gore?

That were to do a deed he e'er must rue; Unfit it for a place in his Walhalla there.

No, better far to don the holy cross, As valiant knight became; Then if he fell, He would at least have saved his honoured name; Could say with life's last flitting breath--"'Tis well, For so to live or die, to me were gain, not loss."

Yet spite of all, one parting word and kiss, From dear Rowena's lips.-- May be the last!

G.o.d knows. That when his life felt death's eclipse, Her angel-presence would its brightness cast And dissipate its gloom. O thus to die were bliss!

The Deserted Eyrie.

But how and where they twain could meet unseen, Unknown! Love found the way, The place, the hour.

Rowena with her page was wont to stray Along the topmost cliffs. Here was a bower Hemmed in by rocks, where once an eagle's nest had been.

By Eric's loyal hand a note was brought.

Sir Harold scarce could bear To break the seal.

"To-night at nine, be at the eagle's lair; Let Eric guide. Yours, aye, come woe, come weal."

Too slowly moved the hours with love's dear issues fraught.

They met. No eye but Heaven's the secrets knew, That sad, sweet hour betrayed, Their hearts nigh burst 'Twixt hope and fear. Yet now, no more afraid To face the world and say "Yea, do your worst; For aye, come weal, come woe, each will to each be true."

Sir Harold Sails.

Sir Harold Wynn set sail for Holy Land With Richard, Lion-heart, Peerless, whose fame-- There, if he might, to act a leal knight's part And add fresh l.u.s.tre to his martial name, Wherewith to move Sir Guy and gain Rowena's hand.

Of Saxon race, Sir Harold Wynn was fair, n.o.ble in mien and gait, Stalwart of frame; In powers of mind and heart a worthy mate For any lady. Few beside could claim Domains so large and rich, as could with his compare.

The first knight's sword hung high in hall, Had healed the feud of race, By val'rous deeds.

Beneath it in the same proud resting place, The sons fixed theirs with other warlike meeds, To prove their martial line had known nor break nor fall.

Rowena's Lonely Vigil.

She sought her chamber in yon spectral keep With ivy wreaths now crowned; Whose casket rent By Time's grim hand and strewn by fragments round, Once held a jewel whose rare beauty lent Its light to cheer the sailors toiling on the deep.

Her vestal lamp she nightly trimmed and fed, A beacon light more true Than stars above; For darkness only made the light it threw More bright--bless'd, too, as emblem of her love For those who else might make h.e.l.l's caves their last lone bed.

"Hist! Hist!" They'd cry: and straight the plash of oar, And creak of sail were stilled; And every ear Was tent to catch the strains her sweet voice trilled.

Avast to gloomy thoughts and boding fear!

Alack the day when she should witch their hearts no more!

Rowena's Song.