The Smuggler's Den.
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.
Rowena's Fiery Furnace.
Now all this while Rowena struggled still,
Bound fast by fever's chain.
There seemed no hope!
No leech nor nurse could ease her tortured brain,
Or help her frail and sinking frame to cope
With all the fiery imps that sported there at will.
She sank at last in stupor so profound
They deemed her dead indeed,
And forthwith sent
A messenger to Ragnor's Tower with speed.
But as the heavens no light propitious lent,
The morn beheld the rider horseless on the ground.
Him bleeding sore, the smuggler found; his steed
Was grazing close at hand.
His master groaned,
And begged with tears, as one by fear unmanned
To die, for then his life will have atoned
For what may hap unless his note were sent with speed!