Classic Poem

Ah check yon courser, o'er mountains he speeds,
And rescue fair Emma, fair Emma that bleeds;
See wildly she beckons, fly, youths, to her aid,
Protect my fair Emma, oh! save the sweet maid.

He's thrown her! — he's thrown her! — Ah, see where she lies,
And dim are the lustre of Emma's bright eyes;
Sweet blossom, tho' gathered in life's early bloom,
The tear of soft pity shall water thy tomb.