Эдмунд Кларенс Стедман (Edmund Clarence Stedman)

Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call

     1 Jan. A. D. 1661

Where nowadays the Battery lies,
⁠New York had just begun,
A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,
⁠In Sixteen Sixty-One.
They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam,
⁠Those burghers grave and stately,
And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,
⁠Lived out their lives sedately.

Two windmills topped their wooden wall,
⁠On Stadthuys gazing down,
On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all
⁠The quaintly gabled town;
These flapped their wings and shifted backs,
⁠As ancient scrolls determine,
To scare the savage Hackensacks,
⁠Paumanks, and other vermin.

At night the loyal settlers lay
⁠Betwixt their feather-beds;
In hose and breeches walked by day,
⁠And smoked, and wagged their heads.
No changeful fashions came from France,
⁠The freulen to bewilder,
And cost the burgher's purse, perchance,
⁠Its every other guilder.

In petticoats of linsey-red,
⁠And jackets neatly kept,
The vrouws their knitting-needles sped
⁠And deftly spun and swept.
Few modern-school flirtations there
⁠Set wheels of scandal trundling,
But youths and maidens did their share
⁠Of staid, old-fashioned bundling.

—The New Year opened clear and cold;
⁠The snow, a Flemish ell
In depth, lay over Beeckman's Wold
⁠And Wolfert's frozen well.
Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors,
⁠Drew on his Holland leather,
Then stamped through drifts to do the chores,
⁠Beshrewing all such weather.

But—after herring, ham, and kraut—
⁠To all the gathered town
The Dominie preached the morning out,
⁠In Calvinistic gown;
While tough old Peter Stuyvesant
⁠Sat pewed in foremost station,—
The potent, sage, and valiant
⁠Third Governor of the nation.

Prayer over, at his mansion hall,
⁠With cake and courtly smile
He met the people, one and all,
⁠In gubernatorial style;
Yet missed, though now the day was old,
⁠An ancient fellow-feaster,—
Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold
⁠Brewer and burgomeester;

Who, in his farm-house, close without
⁠The picket's eastern end,
Sat growling at the twinge of gout
⁠That kept him from his friend.
But Peter strapped his wooden peg,
⁠When tea and cake were ended
(Meanwhile the sound remaining leg
⁠Its high jack-boot defended),

A woolsey cloak about him threw,
⁠And swore, by wind and limb,
Since Govert kept from Peter's view,
⁠Peter would visit him;
Then sallied forth, through snow and blast,
⁠While many a humble greeter
Stood wondering whereaway so fast
⁠Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.

Past quay and cowpath, through a lane
⁠Of vats and mounded tans,
He puffed along, with might and main,
⁠To Govert Loockermans;
Once there, his right of entry took,
⁠And hailed his ancient crony:
"Myn Gód! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,
⁠Ve gets more snow as money!"

To which, and after whiffs profound,
⁠With doubtful wink and nod,
There came at last responsive sound:
⁠"Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gód!"
Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest
⁠Beneath the chimney-gable,
And courtesied, bustling at her best
⁠To spread the New Year's table.

She brought the pure and genial schnapps,
⁠That years before had come—
In the "Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps—
⁠To cheer the settlers' home;
The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll
⁠Of pressed and crispy Spanish;
Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,
⁠Nor long delayed to vanish.

Thereat, with cheery nod and wink,
⁠And honors of the day,
The trader mixed the Governor's drink
⁠As evening sped away.
That ancient room! I see it now:
⁠The carven nutwood dresser;
The drawers, that many a burgher's vrouw
⁠Begrudged their rich possessor;

The brace of high-backed leathern chairs,
⁠Brass-nailed at every seam;
Six others, ranged in equal pairs;
⁠The bacon hung abeam:
The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft;
⁠The hearty wooden fire;
The picture, on the steaming delft,
⁠Of David and Goliah.

I see the two old Dutchmen sit
⁠Like Magog and his mate,
And hear them, when their pipes are lit,
⁠Discuss affairs of state:
The clique that would their sway demean;
⁠The pestilent importation
Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean
⁠And losel Yankee nation.

But when the subtle juniper
⁠Assumed its sure command,
They drank the buxom loves that were,—
⁠They drank the Motherland;
They drank the famous Swedish wars,
⁠Stout Peter's special glory,
While Govert proudly showed the scars
⁠Of Indian contests gory.

Erelong, the berry's power awoke
⁠Some music in their brains,
And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,
⁠Rang long-forgotten strains,—
Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,
⁠Of phantom ships and battle;
And Peter, with his leg of wood,
⁠Made floor and casement rattle.

Then round and round the dresser pranced,
⁠The chairs began to wheel,
And on the board the punch-bowl danced
⁠A Netherlandish reel;
Till midnight o'er the farm-house spread
⁠Her New-Year's skirts of sable,
And, inch by inch, each puzzled head
⁠Dropt down upon the table.

But still to Peter, as he dreamed,
⁠That table spread and turned;
The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed
⁠To circle as it burned;
The town into the vision grew
⁠From ending to beginning;
Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,
⁠All widening and spinning.

The cowpaths, leading to the docks,
⁠Grew broader, whirling past,
And checkered into shining blocks,—
⁠A city fair and vast;
Stores, churches, mansions, overspread
⁠The metamorphosed island,
While not a beaver showed his head
⁠From Swamp to Kalchook highland.

Eftsoons the picture passed away;
⁠Hours after, Peter woke
To see a spectral streak of day
⁠Gleam in through fading smoke;
Still slept old Govert, snoring on
⁠In most melodious numbers;
No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One
⁠Commingled with his slumbers.

But Peter, from the farm-house door,
⁠Gazed doubtfully around,
Rejoiced to find himself once more
⁠On sure and solid ground.
The sky was somewhat dark ahead,
⁠Wind east, and morning lowery;
And on he pushed, a two-miles' tread,
⁠To breakfast at his Bouwery. 

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