Classic Poem

Along the shore he sped nor stopped his flight
Until a burly voice,
His fleet foot stayed.
That voice he knew full well. He had no choice
But one--to yield himself--nor felt afraid,
Within the smuggler's den to rest at least, the night.

So sweetly sound his sleep, without a dream
To shorten his repose;
The watcher's eye
Could scarce perceive he breathed save as arose
And fell his manly chest with deep-drawn sigh;
Which sign the smuggler caught beneath his lantern's gleam.

His story told, young Eric found a friend
And guide in one he feared;
Who bade him stay
Until he'd seen the coast of foes was cleared,
Then to St. Hilda's shrine he'd lead the way,
Those saintly walls to him would peace and succour lend.