Classic Poem

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.