The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRowena & HaroldThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Rowena & HaroldAuthor: William Stephen PryerRelease date: May 17, 2007 [eBook #21509]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROWENA & HAROLD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Rowena & HaroldAuthor: William Stephen PryerRelease date: May 17, 2007 [eBook #21509]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Rowena & Harold
Author: William Stephen Pryer
Author: William Stephen Pryer
Release date: May 17, 2007 [eBook #21509]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROWENA & HAROLD ***
Cover art—Old Ragnor's Crypt.
Cover art—Old Ragnor's Crypt.
Wm. Stephen PryerWm. Stephen Pryer
Wm. Stephen PryerWm. Stephen Pryer
In grateful remembrance of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria's unprecedentedly long, illustrious, and beneficent reign of sixty years (1837-97), and of fifty years of service (1847-97) in the cause of National Education by Her Majesty's most loyal and devoted servant,
THE AUTHOR.
Old Ragnor's CliffsSir Guy de WarreSir Harold WynnSir Harold SpurnedThe Deserted EyrieSir Harold SailsRowena's Lonely VigilRowena's SongSir Harold at AcreThe Saracen Maid's SecretThe Secret AssassinThe Light in the Turret TowerDeath at Ragnor's TowerRowena's GriefRowena's LamentThe Holy Friar's ConsolationRowena Enters a ConventNigh unto DeathThe Demon WreckerOld Ragnor's Dungeons GrimEric EntombedThe Rift in Hell GateThe Crucified OneEric Faithful unto DeathEric to be CrucifiedTo Die or LiveEric EscapesThe Smuggler's DenRowena's Fiery FurnaceThe Dungeon's AngelRedivivaConvalescentRowena's Te DeumThe Lights of HomeThe Lamp of DeathThe Wreck of The "Holy Cross"Grief at Wynnwood HallSavedTwo Lives in OneThe Lost MissiveAnother Dungeon TenantNemesisThe Demon ExorcisedFather and ChildReconciliationA Royal VisitorThe Royal PardonThe Deserted BridesHeart ChordsHome, Sweet Home
St. Hilda's Keep.THE CASTLE, HASTYNGS.
St. Hilda's Keep.THE CASTLE, HASTYNGS.
Like some horrific Gorgon's mammoth skull,Thrown up by Titan spade,From out those cavesWhere 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 dayOn that same seaAnd 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 crownAdorn 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.
Like Ragnor's rocks. He swore that she should wedSir Ralph of Normanhurst,His sister's son.Would not the Holy Church deem her accursed,Dared she defy his will and marry oneOf her own choice! Were't so, 'twere better she were dead!
"Dear father, mine," Rowena pleaded sore,On bended knee, "The heartBelongs to God.To wed where hallowed love can; have no partWere sin, deserving His all-chastening rod,Whose blessing on such tie 'twere impious to implore."
"Sir Guy, my spouse, a mother's prayers, I tooWould blend with hers. O yield,Our only child,Possession sweet of woman's holy field—Affection's glebe—a virgin soil deniedWhen wedlock makes those one whose hearts can ne'er beat true."
Sir Guy de Warre, the fair Rowena's sire,Of haughty Norman birth,With pure descent,Held Saxon, high or low, as scum 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 dreadThrough 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 spakeBut ope'd the door,And, scowling, said—"No Saxon churl shall makeRowena wife; and dare he woo her more,Upon him, would Sir Guy a direful vengeance wreak."
To sue and lose, his knightly soul might bear;But insult galled him sore.Should he imbrueHis 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!God knows. That when his life felt death's eclipse,Her angel-presence would its brightness castAnd dissipate its gloom. O thus to die were bliss!
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 strayAlong the topmost dins. Here was a bowerHemmed in by rocks, where once an eagle's nest had been.
By Eric's loyal hand a note was brought.Sir Harold scarce could bearTo 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 afraidTo face the world and say "Yea, do your worst;For aye, come weal, come woe, each will to each be true."
Sir Harold Wynn set sail for Holy LandWith Richard, Lion-heart,Peerless, whose fame—There, if he might, to act a leal knight's partAnd add fresh lustre to his martial name,Wherewith to move Sir Guy and gain Rowena's hand.
Of Saxon race, Sir Harold Wynn was fair,Noble in mien and gait,Stalwart of frame;In powers of mind and heart a worthy mateFor any lady. Few beside could claimDomains 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.
She sought her chamber in yon spectral keepWith ivy wreaths now crowned;Whose casket rentBy Time's grim hand and strewn by fragments round,Once held a jewel whose rare beauty lentIts light to cheer the sailors toiling on the deep.
Her vestal lamp she nightly trimmed and fed,A beacon light more trueThan stars above;For darkness only made the light it threwMore bright—bless'd, too, as emblem of her loveFor those who else might make Hell's caves their last lone bed.
"Hist! Hist!" They'd cry: and straight the plash of oar,And creak cf sail were stilled;And every earWas 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!
Sea, sea,Bounding and free,O soothe me to sleep with thy sweet lullaby!As when a child,Sportive and wild,Thy waves and I gamboll'd, thou gem-crested sea!
Sea, sea,Laugh on in glee;How dear to the sailor thy sweet monody!Soul-soothing calm,Soul-healing balm,For hearts beating fondly for hearts on the sea!
Sea, sea,Tempest-lashed sea!O spare in thy fury, smite not angrilyHearts true and brave,Breasting thy wave,Who love as they trust thee, thou beautiful sea!
Sea, sea,Bring back to meOne that thou bearest to war's pageantry!Bear him my love,Life-lasting love,For him and him only, then speed him to me!
So sang Rowena, from her turret bower,Her plaintive notes each night,In seamen's ears.Their hearts sank deep. They long had watched her whiteAnd care-worn cheeks; but now they knew her fearsAnd wept with her to see the darkling storm-clouds lower.
Meanwhile her red-cross knight was lying prone,Sore wounded, life nigh spent,On Acre's plains.He'd swooned and woke to find him 'neath, a tent.With balm a maiden soothed his throbbing veins.No other soul came near save she a maid unknown.
Low whispers could he often hear without.Fresh unctions were applied;His wounds Soon healed.Whene'er he groaned swift flew she to his side:At other times the maiden lay concealed.At last she brought the news of Saladin's great rout.
What secret spring had moved this maiden's heartTo save her nation's fee,At risk of life?Far rather had he died than live to knowThat precious secret was to be his wife.Too well she knew that now 'twas death from him to part!
At length the lingering weeks of healing passedHe e'en must quit for ayeHer angel tent."Take me. Sir knight, to be your slave alway!O leave me not, or my poor heart is rent!"She said, and at his feet her tender form she cast.
He bade her rise! then heard her fearful tale—An orphan doomed to beA lifelong slaveAnd serve a tyrant's lust and infamy.From such, Sir Harold swore he would her save,Whate'er the cost the deed might to himself entail.
He smuggled her on board one darksome night.In deepest hold she lay,Till safe at sea.And when at last they found the stow-awayThe hearts of all rejoiced that she was freeWhile midst the sick she moved a minist'ring sprite.
When, too, they heard she'd saved Sir Harold's lifeAnd why she wished to flyHer native land,They 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 fightAnd fall. He died; so never more could claimRowena's hand. Now would her haughty sire relent his vow?
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.
The flag on Ragnor's tower hung half-mast highSmote 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. SheFull long had seen her childSlowly 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!
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.
O mother, mine, no longer minelMy 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?
A voice she hears, a tender voice,Which says; No choice, my child, no choiceIs 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."
'Twas thus the holy friar of Senlac spoke.His words the flood gates burstAnd tears like rainOn land whose fissures stand agape with thirst,Now filled her soul with joy intense as painBefore. 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 slowAnd 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.
St. Hilda's Keep.St. Hilda's Keep.
St. Hilda's Keep.St. Hilda's Keep.
The lady mother passed the live-long nightBeside her bed whom sleepDeserted long.Delirium seized her, when she'd leapAnd clutch, as if she'd rend the bars so strongWhich 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 saveHim, 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 aloneAt 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.
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 Hell Rock.On this a noble ship, one night, became a wreck;The cliffs resounded with the awful shock—The Demon-Wrecker thought too well his work was done!
Hewn out of solid rock, some fathoms deepOld Ragnor's dungeons lay.A massive chainWhich two men scarce could move a foot away,Joined door above to door below. Its strainUpon the stone-cut stairs still makes the flesh to creep.
Here faithful Eric found himself immuredTo try if gloom and fearOf tortures direCould wring from him a secret held more dearThan life itself. Nay! Famine, rack, and fire,Swift death or tortures slow—all, all should be endured
For his dear lady's sake. Though but a pageHe'd learn to value truthIn word and deedFrom her whose noble love inspired his youthAnd taught him lessons from her living creed.Her foe had thrown the glove he dared take up the gage.