Hell's dungeons bright,
O God! his angel guide now raved in madness there!

Rediviva.

"Dear mistress mine," young Eric cried and rose;
Then took and kissed her hand,
As he had done,
That night he had received her last command—
To make her place of refuge known to none.
O blessed charm which brought her life and sweet repose!

When she awoke next morn she gazed on all
Around with look so calm
And smile so sweet,
As fell upon each soul like holy balm
Of healing. Yet their eyes could only greet
Her look of grateful love with tears unbidd'n to fall.

"That voice I heard last night," she weakly said,
"Whose tones familiar sent
A magic thrill
Through all my veins and fever's fetters rent,
Was Eric's, faithful youth, whom they would kill
In Ragnor's deadly vaults! O say he is not dead?"

Convalescent.

"He'll come anon," the holy mother said,
And kissed her death-white cheek.
"Now sleep! and while
We swiftly send your gallant page to seek,
Let holy thoughts and dreams the time beguile!"
She woke and lo! he stood 'mong those beside her bed.

She clasped his hand and whispered low. He bent
Once more to hear that voice
He must obey,
E'en though 'twixt life and death, no choice
It might him leave. She only bade him stay
Nor leave her more. The lady mother gave assent.

As flowers to sun respond with blushing hues
And grateful scents distil
Their voiceless praise;
So now as through her veins life's pulses thrill
Amid the breath of flowers and wood-choirs' lays,
She could, no more than they, her hymn of thanks refuse.

Rowena's Te Deum.

"O flowers," she sang, "sweet flowers,
Where beauty hath her throne,
Yea, smile away life's hours;
For you they'll soon be flown!
Then nursed awhile in womb of mother earth,
Ye'll rise, to taste with me, the joys of second birth!

O birds of happy wing!
With flowers' sweet incense blend
Your joyous notes and sing;
For soon your songs will end!
When summer's warmth again awakes your trills,
Ye too may know the joy which now my bosom fills!

The world seems one great heart,
Whose pulses move my soul.
I feel a feeble part
Of some mysterious whole!
Thy mighty heart, O God, 'tis thine alone,
That makes all things now breathe, responsive to mine own!"

The Lights of Home.

With sails full set to catch the western breeze,
The stout ship, Holy Cross,
The Channel ploughed;
Nor dreamt those noble hearts on board of loss;
Or that those silvered waves might prove their shroud;
As o'er her staunch bulwarks they pictured home and ease.

"What light is that which glimmers on yon height?"
The gallant captain cried,
"'Tis Ragnor's Tower,"
Sir Harold said, "where dwells my lady bride.
That light she vowed should never quit her bower.
Haste, captain, haste, I pray, and land me there this night."

"Steer straight for yonder light on Ragnor's crown!"
The captain made reply.
They set the helm;
And now with wings outstretched they swiftly fly,
Where demons will with mocking laugh o'erwhelm
And dance with fiendish glee to see them sink and drown.

The Lamp of Death.

Sir Guy had heard afar the tidings fell
Of Harold Wynn's return
From Holy Land.
The news more fiercely made his wrath to burn.
Hence hot with hate he sought Old Ragnor's strand,
Whose peaceful haunts became again a very hell.

By Eric fed, the beacon lamp once more
Shone o'er the treach'rous sea
Which hid Death's maw.
Rowena had a secret gate whose key,
Her page had used. Her light, Sir Guy first saw.
O madd'ning sight! "If saved, Rowena dies," he swore.

The light of life, he quenched, and straightway hung
A lamp to lure to death.
His eyes shot fire
As straight he saw her come. He held his breath,
At length he heard the crash. No Nero's lyre
Across his work of death such yells of triumph flung!

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