DEDICATION.

DEO LAUS.

In grateful remembrance of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria's unprecedentedly long, illustrious, and beneficent reign of sixty years (1837-97), and of fifty years of service (1847-97) in the cause of National Education by Her Majesty's most loyal and devoted servant,

THE AUTHOR.

ROWENA & HAROLD:

A Romance in Rhyme Of an Olden Time, Of Hastyngs and Normanhurst.

by

WM. STEPHEN PRYER,

Author of "Thought Crystals in Verse," Etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS & PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR.

London: WARD, LOCK & CO. Forest Gate, E.: THE ELECTRIC PUBLISHING CO. 1897

INDEX.

Old Ragnor's Cliffs Sir Guy de Warre Sir Harold Wynn Sir Harold Spurned The Deserted Eyrie Sir Harold Sails Rowena's Lonely Vigil Rowena's Song Sir Harold at Acre The Saracen Maid's Secret The Secret Assassin The Light in the Turret Tower Death at Ragnor's Tower Rowena's Grief Rowena's Lament The Holy Friar's Consolation Rowena Enters a Convent Nigh unto Death The Demon Wrecker Old Ragnor's Dungeons Grim Eric Entombed The Rift in Hell Gate The Crucified One Eric Faithful unto Death Eric to be Crucified To Die or Live Eric Escapes The Smuggler's Den Rowena's Fiery Furnace The Dungeon's Angel Rediviva Convalescent Rowena's Te Deum The Lights of Home The Lamp of Death The Wreck of The "Holy Cross" Grief at Wynnwood Hall Saved Two Lives in One The Lost Missive Another Dungeon Tenant Nemesis The Demon Exorcised Father and Child Reconciliation A Royal Visitor The Royal Pardon The Deserted Brides Heart Chords Home, Sweet Home

ILLUSTRATIONS

Old Ragnor's Crypt . . . . . . . . . Cover Art

Wm. Stephen Pryer . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece

The Castle, Hastyngs.

St. Hilda's Keep.

THE CASTLE, HASTYNGS.

Old Ragnor's Cliffs.

Like some horrific Gorgon's mammoth skull, Thrown up by Titan spade, From out those caves Where saurians with mastodons had played, Before the sea had made their homes their graves, And scared their ghosts with screech of sea-born mew and gull,

Is Ragnor's beetling brow, the seaman's dread, That scowls by night and day On that same sea And with earth-shaking sound is heard to say,— Which sound the waves roll back with mocking glee— "What! Not enough of life ye must e'en have the dead?"

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.

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.

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."