Classic Poem

Lord Herman hugged his horse with pride;
He raised his horn and blew so loudly,
That more than echoes back replied:
Horns answered louder; horsemen cried,
And muskets banged, as if avowedly
On Stuyvesant's errand proudly!

“Die, traitor! fleer! though thou 'scape
Our ambush on thy devil's racer,
Caught here upon this marshy cape,
Thy bones the muskrat's brood shall scrape,
The sturgeon suck—Death thy embracer!”
So shouts each sanguine chaser.

To die in sight of Amstel's walls,
And gallant Joost to die beside him!—
O foolish blast, such fate that calls!
O river, that the heart appals!
Dear Joost may live. And they bestride him?
“By Hell! none else shall ride him!

“My steed, thy limbs like mine are sore!
Few years are left us ere the billows
Roll over both. Come but once more,
And to the bottom or the shore,
Bear me and thee to happy pillows,
Or 'neath the water willows!

He strokes old Joost. He bends him low.
He winds his horn and laughs derision.
One spring!—they've cleared the bog and sloe,
And down the ebb-tide buoyant go—
That stately tide, so like a vision
Of home, to Norse and Frisian,

Where full a league spread Maas and Rhine,
And in the marsh the rice-birds twitter;
The long cranes pasture and the kine
Loom lofty in the misty shine
Of dawn and reedy islands glitter:
Yet death all where is bitter.

Ere out of range a volley peals,
But greed too great made aye a blunder.
His horse Lord Herman's self conceals,
Yet once his horse and he go under,
And rise again. No wound he feels.
They hold their fire in wonder?

Short of the mark the bullets splash:
“Now drown thee, wizard! at thy pleasure,”
The Dutchmen hiss through teeth they gnash.
He answers not; for o'er the plash
Of waves he hears Joost's gasping measure
Of breath's fast wasting treasure.