Rowena Harold | Page 3

swore, as salt tears filled each manly eye,
To
be her knight till safe on England's strand;
And happy would he be
who won her then for wife!
On deck, one eve, she told Sir Harold, how,
She'd seen an English
knight,

Sir Ralph by name,
Deal him his wound, then rush into the fight

And fall. He died; so never more could claim
Rowena's hand. Now
would her haughty sire relent his vow?
The Light in the Turret Tower.
Rowena sings.
Burn bright, burn bright,
Dear light, sweet light,

To guide him back to me.
My knight, own knight,
Brave knight,
true knight,
My love sent o'er the sea.
O light, O light,
Burn bright, burn bright,
And keep strict watch for
me;
Some night, some night,
My knight, own knight,
Will come
from o'er the sea.
Stars light, stars light,
My knight, brave knight,
Gone from me o'er
the sea;
Shine bright, shine bright,
Each night, each night,
Till he
come back to me.
Death at Ragnor's Tower.
The flag on Ragnor's tower hung half-mast high
Smote old and young
with grief.
A death it told.
They long had watched her wither like a leaf;
Her
warm hands too had grown of late so cold.
So young, so fair, so good.
Alas! that she should die.
But no! It was her lady mother. She
Full long had seen her child
Slowly decay.
Her father's temper, too, had grown more wild.
She
could but pray that ere she passed away,
Rowena's knight would safe
return from o'er the sea.
Her mother dead! Her one true guide and friend!
Her heart seemed
reft in twain.

Would she had died!
A year at least it meant ere yet again,
She
needs must list to suits to be denied.
O death, or Harold, come and let
there be an end!
Rowena's Grief.
She straightway sought the dim-lit chamber, where,
Beside her
mother's bier,
Her heart might break.
So frail her bark to stem life's sea so drear.

She fain would die, yet live for his dear sake.
But then "He might not
live!" she cried in wild despair.
Rowena's Lament.
O mother, mine, no longer mine!
My life for thine, yea twice for
thine!
O take it Death! Why not, O Death?
Why is our breath, life's
fleeting breath,
Not ours to take, to give or take?
Life's cord will
break, life's cord must break.
Why may we not, why dare we not,

Clean cut its knot, its painful knot?
The Holy Friar's Consolation.
A voice she hears, a tender voice,
Which says: No choice, my child,
no choice
Is left for thee, for me or thee.
There's naught for thee, for
thee or me,
But bear the cross, the bitter cross.
The cup of woe you
now must drain,
Will bring sweet gain, for you sweet gain.
Pax
vobiscum, my child; Pax vobiscum!
Heaven's peace, dear maid, be
thine,
For evermore!
Go seek its home at good St. Hilda's shrine;
In holy
mother's ears thy sorrows pour;
Within those peaceful gates no
earthly ill can come."
Rowena Enters a Convent.

'Twas thus the holy friar of Senlac spoke.
His words the flood gates
burst
And tears like rain
On land whose fissures stand agape with thirst,

Now filled her soul with joy intense as pain
Before. At length her
whispered thanks the silence broke.
Within Old Ragnor's walls a chapel stood;
And there, in crypt below,
With Warre's proud race,
His gentle wife they laid, while monks with
slow
And solemn steps, with incense filled the place.
The stern
knight's sob was heard throughout the holy rood.
Next night, while weary warders timely slept,
And snow fell thickly
round,
Rowena fled;
Nor stayed till she had peace and safety found,
Where
good St. Hilda's lights her footsteps led.
Meanwhile the kindly snow
her dreaded secret kept.
[Illustration: St. Hilda's Keep.]
Nigh Unto Death.
The lady mother passed the live-long night
Beside her bed whom
sleep
Deserted long.
Delirium seized her, when she'd leap
And clutch, as
if she'd rend the bars so strong
Which girt the windows round, and
cry "More light!"
She wanted not more light herself, but he,
Her knight, so true and
brave,
Filled all her soul.
She thought she saw him drown yet none to save

Him, bent an oar. Her brain burnt like a coal.
She cried: "O let me
go and plunge in yon dark sea!"

Weeks passed and still she only moaned and raved.
Nor slept by night
or day.
One voice alone
At last was found the fever's course to stay;
'Twas
when she heard her faithful Eric's tone,
When he in hot haste came
and instant audience craved.
The Demon Wrecker.
If grief had wrung Sir Guy's stern heart that night,
He stood among
his dead;
'Twixt grief and ire,
He now a maniac grew. Sleep from him fled;

He passed the night with warders round their fire,
While every
turret-room was all ablaze with light.
Days, weeks, and months thus passed, but still,
No sign Rowena
gave.
She's dead, he thought;
Yon yawning sea no doubt conceals her grave.

And then his rage a direful vengeance wrought,
For him whose
steadfast love had made her thwart his will.
No turret lights now burned at night, save one,
And that a feeble
speck,
Straight o'er