The Wreck of the "Holy Cross."
The noble ship had freight of nobler 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.
God 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!