SONGS AND BALLADS
If you love me, wait till June:
Rosebuds wither, picked too soon.
1878.
THE DUTCH PATROL
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;
'T will last this many a year."
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