Old Ragnor's Dungeons Grim.
Hewn out of solid rock, some fathoms deep
Old Ragnor's dungeons lay.
A massive chain
Which two men scarce could move a foot away,
Joined door above to door below. Its strain
Upon the stone-cut stairs still makes the flesh to creep.
Here faithful Eric found himself immured
To try if gloom and fear
Of tortures dire
Could wring from him a secret held more dear
Than 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 page
He'd learn to value truth
In word and deed
From her whose noble love inspired his youth
And taught him lessons from her living creed.
Her foe had thrown the glove he dared take up the gage.
Eric Entombed.
Entombed alive! A struggling streak of light
Made visible the gloom,—
His living shroud.
He felt himself alive yet without room
To live or breathe. He groaned, then cried aloud,
"O God, while in this porch of hell, be Thou my light!"
Next morn—if morn, it were—no count of hours,
The dungeon-tenant kept,—
A silver ray
Woke hope afresh, as down a cord there crept
A basket full of meats, while 'neath them lay
A lamp and tools, with hints where he might try their powers.
Henceforth work's pulses guaged his night and day,
As sandstone rock he bored.
His ear supplied,
By sound of sea, how much his axe had gored,
As clearer came the welcome rush of tide.
Hope made his feeble lamp effulgent as sun's ray!