round
That lost was every soul.
At Wynnwood Hall,
Sir Harold's home, their grief knew no control.
That he should be the first Wynn not to fall
In battle's heated fray; but should be basely drowned!

His helmet, cloak, and sword he'd cast aside,
To save the girl who clung
Around his neck.
These relics dear were found and silent hung
Beneath the rest. None sought grief's tears to check
To see the blood-stained cross for which he'd fought and died.

Alack! The ill-starred news had reach the shrine
Where sat mid birds and flowers,
His new-born bride.
To her the lead-winged moments seemed as hours;
And yet her bounding hope her baleful fears belied.
What tidings would morn bring. O could she but divine!

Saved.

The smuggler's patient skill soon fanned life's spark
Into a feeble flame.
Sir Harold first
The solemn quiet broke to breathe the name
Of Ruth, the Saracene who had him nurs'd
And hid with all a sister's love and care within her ark.

"She's saved? Thanks be to God," he said, and wept.
"And she, my lady bride!
O can you say
She too doth live? Or better yonder tide
Now held this hopeless wreck of life its prey!"
"She lives, brave knight," they said. He smiled his thanks
and slept.

A messenger of life, young Eric sped
And death's fell courier caught
At Hilda's gate.
The sisters' tears foretold the mischief wrought,
"She's swoon'd," they said. He curs'd his cruel fate.
They led him to her couch whereon she lay as dead.

Two Lives in One.

"Sir Harold saved!" Like drops of heavenly balm,
With healing quickening power,
The tidings thrilled
Her soul with joy intense as in that hour,
The rush of new-found life her pulses filled.
Her anxious fears allayed, she felt a holy calm.

Two lives in one, although they dwelt apart.
A sympathetic glow,
Each seemed to feel,
To pass from soul to soul; a constant flow
Of thought and feeling made their wounds to heal;
As though betwixt the two there beat one common heart.

Who nightly scared the darkness-loving owl
And made the hills resound
With watch-dogs' bark?
But he who faithful unto death was found;
Who'd buried been in Ragnor's dungeons dark,
While round him Death's grim shades pursued their midnight prowl.

The Lost Missive.

One night as Eric rode, a bolt whizzed by,
With well-nigh fatal aim.
He faster flew,
Until, alack! his faithful steed fell lame.
He leapt aground and o'er his arm he drew
The reins. What joy to find the smuggler's den was nigh!

For Eric's belt then held in close embrace,
As erst long months ago,
A precious note.
'Twas gone! and its contents would clearly show
His lurking place and hers—Alas! who wrote
To beg she soon might see her Harold face to face.

The smuggler begged young Eric show the road
He'd come. Then armed they go;
But without need;
For where Rowena's page alighted, lo!
The missive lay. They hasten back with speed;
And as they give God thanks, more eyes than one o'erflowed.