Morn broke on lofty Staten's height,
O'er low Amboy and Arthur Kill;
And ocean dallying with the light,
Between the beaches leprous white,
And silent hook and headland hill,
And Stuyvesant had his will;
One-legged he stood, his sharp mustache
Stiff as the sword he slashed in ire;
His bald crown, like a calabash,
Fringed round with ringlets white as ash,
And features scorched with inner fire;
Age wore him like a briar.
"Bring the Bohemian forth!" he cried;
"Old man, thy moments are but few."
"So much the better, Dutchman! bide
Thy little time of aged pride,
Thy poor revenges to pursue--
Thy date is hastening, too.
"No crime is mine, save that I sought
A refuge past thy jealous ken,
And peaceful arts to strangers taught,
And mine own title hither brought,
Before the laws of Englishmen,
A banished denizen.
"Yet that thy churlish soul may plead
A favor to a dying foe,
I'll ask thee, Stuyvesant, ere I bleed,
Let me once more on my gray steed
Thrice round the timbered _enceinte_ go:
Fire, when I tell thee so!"
"What freak is this?" quoth Stuyvesant grim.
Quoth Herman, "'Twas a charger brave--
Like my first bride in eye and limb--
A wedding-gift; indulge the whim!
And from his back to plunge, I crave,
A bridegroom, in her grave."
Then muttered the uneasy guard:
"We rob an old man of his lands,
And slay him. Sure his fate is hard,
His dying plea to disregard!"
"Ride then to death!" Stuyvesant commands;
"Unbind his horse, his hands!"