The ragged remnants of an ancient crown
Adorn 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.
Sir Guy de Warre.
Like Ragnor's rocks. He swore that she should wed
Sir Ralph of Normanhurst,
His sister's son.
Would not the Holy Church deem her accursed,
Dared she defy his will and marry one
Of her own choice! Were't so, 'twere better she were dead!
"Dear father, mine," Rowena pleaded sore,
On bended knee, "The heart
Belongs to God.
To wed where hallowed love can; have no part
Were sin, deserving His all-chastening rod,
Whose blessing on such tie 'twere impious to implore."
"Sir Guy, my spouse, a mother's prayers, I too
Would blend with hers. O yield,
Our only child,
Possession sweet of woman's holy field—
Affection's glebe—a virgin soil denied
When wedlock makes those one whose hearts can ne'er beat true."
Sir Harold Wynn.
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 dread
Through 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.