Rowena Harold | Page 5

sigh.
Yet did he not despair. Athwart the gloom
A gleam of hope there
stole.
As clothed in light,
He saw the form that could his fears control,

And which the darkness only made more bright--
It was her angel
presence lit his rock-hewn tomb!
It beckoned him; he boldly followed till,
Beside the narrow cleft,
His axe had wrought,
It stood. He saw the fissure wider reft.
To
challenge death then fly--ignoble thought!--
He knelt and prayed: "O
God, but show me now Thy will!"
Eric Escapes.
He rose and turned a quick retreat to make,
When lo! that presence
bright

Still barred his way,
And stood with hand stretched towards the rift's
pale light-- A sign which Eric felt in words would say--
"What God,
in mercy sends, dare you refuse to take?"
As Cherubim with flaming sword it kept
The gates of death. How
could
He pass them now?
Enough, that she would know his will was good,

From, what he'd suffered for his loyal vow.
"Heaven's will be
done!" he cried, and through the portal crept.
The sudden call to life from out the tomb;
Death's bands thus swiftly
rent,
Life's tidal force
Undammed, had rushed with too impetuous vent,

Did not a tortuous cave arrest its course,
Ere he at length emerged
beneath night's starless gloom.
The Smuggler's Den.
Along the shore he sped nor stopped his flight
Until a burly voice,
His fleet foot stayed.
That voice he knew full well. He had no choice

But one--to yield himself--nor felt afraid,
Within the smuggler's
den to rest at least, the night.
So sweetly sound his sleep, without a dream
To shorten his repose;
The watcher's eye
Could scarce perceive he breathed save as arose

And fell his manly chest with deep-drawn sigh;
Which sign the
smuggler caught beneath his lantern's gleam.
His story told, young Eric found a friend
And guide in one he feared;
Who bade him stay
Until he'd seen the coast of foes was cleared,

Then to St. Hilda's shrine he'd lead the way,
Those saintly walls to

him would peace and succour lend.
Rowena's Fiery Furnace.
Now all this while Rowena struggled still,
Bound fast by fever's
chain.
There seemed no hope!
No leech nor nurse could ease her tortured
brain,
Or help her frail and sinking frame to cope
With all the fiery
imps that sported there at will.
She sank at last in stupor so profound
They deemed her dead indeed,
And forthwith sent
A messenger to Ragnor's Tower with speed.
But
as the heavens no light propitious lent,
The morn beheld the rider
horseless on the ground.
Him bleeding sore, the smuggler found; his steed
Was grazing close
at hand.
His master groaned,
And begged with tears, as one by fear unmanned

To die, for then his life will have atoned
For what may hap unless
his note were sent with speed!
The Dungeon's Angel.
The smuggler promised, but when Eric read
The note, he knew Sir
Guy
Was far away.
No need of guide, the horse did homewards fly
And
at St. Hilda's gate alone made stay.
This was the night young Eric
stood beside Rowena's bed.
Soon after midnight, life once more returned;
Her pulse beat full and
fast.
The fever's power,
Some mystic spell had bound but not to last,


Save for one long more dead than living hour;
And now with force
renewed, it once more raged and burned.
"Fly, Eric, fly," she cried, and pointed where
The morn's sweet
dawning gleamed.
And as upright
She stood, the living counterpart she seemed
Of her
whose presence made Hell's dungeons bright,
O God! his angel guide
now raved in madness there!
Rediviva.
"Dear mistress mine," young Eric cried and rose;
Then took and
kissed her hand,
As he had done,
That night he had received her last command--
To
make her place of refuge known to none.
O blessed charm which
brought her life and sweet repose!
When she awoke next morn she gazed on all
Around with look so
calm
And smile so sweet,
As fell upon each soul like holy balm
Of
healing. Yet their eyes could only greet
Her look of grateful love with
tears unbidd'n to fall.
"That voice I heard last night," she weakly said,
"Whose tones
familiar sent
A magic thrill
Through all my veins and fever's fetters rent,
Was
Eric's, faithful youth, whom they would kill
In Ragnor's deadly vaults!
O say he is not dead?"
Convalescent.
"He'll come anon," the holy mother said,
And kissed her death-white
cheek.

"Now sleep! and while
We swiftly send your gallant page to seek,

Let holy thoughts and dreams the time beguile!"
She woke and lo! he
stood 'mong those beside her bed.
She clasped his hand and whispered low. He bent
Once more to hear
that voice
He must obey,
E'en though 'twixt life and death, no choice
It might
him leave. She only bade him stay
Nor leave her more. The lady
mother gave assent.
As flowers to sun respond with blushing hues
And grateful scents
distil
Their voiceless praise;
So now as through her veins life's pulses thrill

Amid the breath of flowers and wood-choirs' lays,
She could, no
more than they, her hymn of thanks refuse.
Rowena's Te