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 afraid
To face the world and say "Yea, do your worst;
For aye, come weal, come woe, each will to each be true."
Sir Harold Sails.
Sir Harold Wynn set sail for Holy Land
With Richard, Lion-heart,
Peerless, whose fame—
There, if he might, to act a leal knight's part
And 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 mate
For any lady. Few beside could claim
Domains 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.
Rowena's Lonely Vigil.
She sought her chamber in yon spectral keep
With ivy wreaths now crowned;
Whose casket rent
By Time's grim hand and strewn by fragments round,
Once held a jewel whose rare beauty lent
Its light to cheer the sailors toiling on the deep.
Her vestal lamp she nightly trimmed and fed,
A beacon light more true
Than stars above;
For darkness only made the light it threw
More bright—bless'd, too, as emblem of her love
For those who else might make Hell's caves their last lone bed.