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. 

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,

 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. 

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;

 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. 

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,

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