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!”

V.—­THE LEAP.

    The old steed darted in the fort,
      And neighed and shook his long gray mane;
    Then, seeing soldiery, his port
    Grew savage.  With a charger’s snort,
      Upright he reared, as young again
      And scenting a campaign.

    Hard on his nostrils Herman laid
      An iron hand and drew him down,
    Then, mounting in the esplanade,
    The rude Dutch rustics stared afraid: 
      “By Santa Claus! he needs no crown,
      To look more proud renown!”

    Lame Stuyvesant, also, envious saw
      How straight he sat in courteous power,
    Like boldness sanctified by law,
    And age gave magisterial awe;
      Though in his last and bitter hour,
      Of knightliness the flower.

    His gray hairs o’er his cassock blew,
      And in his peak’d hat waved a plume;
    A horn swung loose and shining through
    High boots of buckskin, as he drew
      The rein, a jewel burst to bloom: 
      The signet ring of doom.

    ’Thrice round the fort!  Then as I raise
      This hand, aim all and murder well!’
    His head bends low; the steed’s eyes blaze,
    But not less bright do Herman’s gaze,
      As circling round the citadel,
      He peers for hope in hell.