Sir Harold dared his daughter's hand to seek!
No word the fierce knight spake
But ope'd the door,
And, scowling, said—"No Saxon churl shall make
Rowena wife; and dare he woo her more,
Upon him, would Sir Guy a direful vengeance wreak."
Sir Harold Spurned.
To sue and lose, his knightly soul might bear;
But insult galled him sore.
Should he imbrue
His 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 cast
And dissipate its gloom. O thus to die were bliss!
The Deserted Eyrie.
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 stray
Along the topmost dins. Here was a bower
Hemmed in by rocks, where once an eagle's nest had been.
By Eric's loyal hand a note was brought.
Sir Harold scarce could bear
To 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.