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 command
“Unbind his horse, his hands!”