dish 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 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