Rowena & Harold Part 5

O madd'ning sight! "If saved, Rowena dies," he swore.

The light of life, he quenched, and straightway hung A lamp to lure to death.

His eyes shot fire As straight he saw her come. He held his breath, At length he heard the crash. No Nero's lyre Across his work of death such yells of triumph flung!

The Wreck of the "Holy Cross."

The n.o.ble s.h.i.+p had freight of n.o.bler men, Whose crosses bore the stain Of deadly strife With Turc and Saracen, on Acre's plain And wounded sore had scarce escaped with life.

How beat their hearts with joy at sight of home again.

At home, alas! did foes more deadly wait Than Saladin's fierce crew.

The lamp of love Was changed for one of hate, which threw Its false and fatal skein of light above.

A shuddering shock, a fearful crash, foretold the vessel's fate.

For many nights before, two lonely men Stood ready, boat at hand.

G.o.d speed them now!

As swift they row and quick return to land, Bearing a lifeless form with sword-cleft brow, Whose arms fast clutch a maid. They bore them to their den.

Grief at Wynnwood Hall.

The news soon spread from coast to country round That lost was every soul.

At Wynnwood Hall, Sir Harold's home, their grief knew no control.

That he should be the first Wynn not to fall In battle's heated fray; but should be basely drowned!

His helmet, cloak, and sword he'd cast aside, To save the girl who clung Around his neck.

These relics dear were found and silent hung Beneath the rest. None sought grief's tears to check To see the blood-stained cross for which he'd fought and died.

Alack! The ill-starred news had reach the shrine Where sat mid birds and flowers, His new-born bride.

To her the lead-winged moments seemed as hours; And yet her bounding hope her baleful fears belied.

What tidings would morn bring. O could she but divine!

Saved.

The smuggler's patient skill soon fanned life's spark Into a feeble flame.

Sir Harold first The solemn quiet broke to breathe the name Of Ruth, the Saracene who had him nurs'd And hid with all a sister's love and care within her ark.

"She's saved? Thanks be to G.o.d," he said, and wept.

"And she, my lady bride!

O can you say She too doth live? Or better yonder tide Now held this hopeless wreck of life its prey!"

"She lives, brave knight," they said. He smiled his thanks and slept.

A messenger of life, young Eric sped And death's fell courier caught At Hilda's gate.

The sisters' tears foretold the mischief wrought, "She's swoon'd," they said. He curs'd his cruel fate.

They led him to her couch whereon she lay as dead.

Two Lives in One.

"Sir Harold saved!" Like drops of heavenly balm, With healing quickening power, The tidings thrilled Her soul with joy intense as in that hour, The rush of new-found life her pulses filled.

Her anxious fears allayed, she felt a holy calm.

Two lives in one, although they dwelt apart.

A sympathetic glow, Each seemed to feel, To pa.s.s from soul to soul; a constant flow Of thought and feeling made their wounds to heal; As though betwixt the two there beat one common heart.

Who nightly scared the darkness-loving owl And made the hills resound With watch-dogs' bark?

But he who faithful unto death was found; Who'd buried been in Ragnor's dungeons dark, While round him Death's grim shades pursued their midnight prowl.

The Lost Missive.

One night as Eric rode, a bolt whizzed by, With well-nigh fatal aim.

He faster flew, Until, alack! his faithful steed fell lame.

He leapt aground and o'er his arm he drew The reins. What joy to find the smuggler's den was nigh!

For Eric's belt then held in close embrace, As erst long months ago, A precious note.

'Twas gone! and its contents would clearly show His lurking place and hers--Alas! who wrote To beg she soon might see her Harold face to face.

The smuggler begged young Eric show the road He'd come. Then armed they go; But without need; For where Rowena's page alighted, lo!

The missive lay. They hasten back with speed; And as they give G.o.d thanks, more eyes than one o'erflowed.

Another Dungeon Tenant.

"We e'en must quit, dear Mike, thy safe retreat; 'Tis clear, they're on our track.

Of this be sure, That you henceforth in life shall nothing lack That heart can wish or wealth of mine procure.

Swift send to Wynnwood Hall, a trusty man and fleet!"

"I'll go myself, Sir knight," old Michael said; "For Eric here must stay And hide awhile.

You'll see me back again by break of day; With talk and sleep you can the hours beguile; But one at least much [Transcriber's note: must?] watch, for mischief broods o'erhead!"

When Mike returned, his den indeed was there But tenants only one Who bound him fast And bade him take his leave of yonder sun, For sure enough this look would be his last; In Ragnor's gloomy vaults he'd find nor light nor air.