Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.

The Dutch Patrol

Edmund Clarence Stedman

WHEN Christmas-Eve is ended,

Just at the noon of night,

Rare things are seen by mortal een

That have the second sight.

In St. Mark’s church-yard then

They see the shape arise

Of him who ruled Nieuw Amsterdam

And here in slumber lies.

His face, beneath the close black cap,

Has a martial look and grim;

On either side his locks fall wide

To the broad collar’s rim;

His sleeves are slashed; the velvet coat

Is fashioned Hollandese

Above his fustian breeches, trimmed

With scarf-knots at the knees.

His leg of flesh is hosed in silk;

His wooden leg is bound,

As well befits a conqueror’s,

With silver bands around.

He reads the lines that mark

His tablet on the wall,

Where boldly PETRUS STUYVESANT

Stands out beyond them all.

“’Tis well!” he says, and sternly smiles,

“They hold our memory dear;

Nor rust nor moss hath crept across;

’Twill last this many a year.”

Then down the path he strides,

And through the iron gate,

Where the sage Nine Men, his councillors,

Their Governor await.

Here are Van der Donck and Van Cortlandt,

A triplet more of Vans,

And Hendrick Kip of the haughty lip,

And Govert Loockermans.

Jan Jansen Dam, and Jansen,

Of whom our annals tell,—

All risen this night their lord to greet

At sound of the Christmas bell.

Nine lusty forms in linsey coats,

Puffed sleeves and ample hose!

Each burgher smokes a Flemish pipe

To warm his ancient nose;

The smoke-wreaths rise like mist,

The smokers all are mute,

Yet all, with pipes thrice waving slow,

Brave Stuyvesant salute.

Then into ranks they fall,

And step out three by three,

And he of the wooden leg and staff

In front walks solemnly.

Along their wonted course

The phantom troop patrol,

To see how fares Nieuw Amsterdam,

And what the years unroll.

Street after street and mile on mile,

From river bound to bound,

From old St. Mark’s to Whitehall Point,

They foot the limits round;

From Maiden Lane to Corlaer’s Hook

The Dutchmen’s pipjen glow,

But never a word from their lips is heard,

And none their passing know.

Ere the first streak of dawn

St. Mark’s again they near,

And by a vault the Nine Men halt,

Their Governor’s voice to hear.

“Mynheeren,” he says, “ye see

Each year our borders spread!

Lo, one by one, the landmarks gone,

And marvels come instead.

“Not even a windmill left,

Nor a garden-plot we knew,

And but a paling marks the spot

Where erst my pear-tree grew.

Our walks are wearier still,

Perchance and it were best,

So little of worth is left on earth,

To break no more our rest?”

Thus speaks old Petrus doubtfully

And shakes his valiant head,

When—on the roofs a sound of hoofs,

A rattling, pattering tread!

The bells of reindeer tinkle,

The Dutchmen plainly spy

St. Nicholas, who drives his team

Across the roof-tops nigh.

“Beshrew me for a craven!”

Cries Petrus—“All goes well!

Our patron saint still makes his round

At sound of the Christmas bell.

So long as stanch St. Nicholas

Shall guard these houses tall,

There shall come no harm from hostile arm

No evil chance befall!

“The yongens and the meisjes

Shall have their hosen filled;

The butcher and the baker,

And every honest guild,

Shall merrily thrive and flourish;

Good-night, and be of cheer;

We may safely lay us down again

To sleep another year!”

Once more the pipes are waved,

Stout Petrus gives the sign,

The misty smoke enfolds them round,

Him and his burghers nine.

All, when the cloud has lifted,

Have vanished quite away.

And the crowing cock and steeple clock

Proclaim ’tis Christmas Day.