So giving up the use of steel,

I made a whispered, soft, appeal :
'Come, pony, come; now stir thy stumps;
Keep me not here in doleful dumps.'
My courser would not move a peg,
But stiffer planted each fore-leg,
Then, by the side of locust grove,
And neither way would deign to move;
So, in default of dang'rous race,
I quiet kept my fearful place,
Content, since neither I could run
Backward or forward, fate to shun,
To see, and hear, and mark the end
Of what might hap from foe or friend.

There rose a gust that smelt of rain,
And then the voice began again:
'Fire and wrath, donder and blizem,
By all that's Dutch, but I will fix 'em!
That foul committee I will scourge,
And my plain congregation purge
Of all such wicked spirits as
Bring like catastrophes to pass.
Oh! I will swinge them in such sort
As that they long shall rue the sport
They found in clapping classic nose
Upon the direst of its foes!'

Here indignation seemed to choke
The voice that mill-pond echoes woke,
Excepting here and there an oath,
In Dutch and English, each and both,
Commingled in such horrid wise,

That rose my hair, and popped my eyes,
And pony shook about his knees
Like silver poplar in a breeze.

In short, swearing so deep and grave
I never heard, and it should have

Uncanonized the daintiest saint

That e'er-but no-in one event

Excepting only, luckless patron lord

And so it is in all such cases,

When saints vouchsafe to show their faces,
That he that's honored, straightway knows
Their saintships, dressed in any clothes.
Yet this I'll swear on Harlem stocks,
That NICHOLAS looked orthodox,
And that he wore on this occasion
Doublet and hose in ancient fashion;
But you may go to MOORE or WEIR,
If you would have a sketch more clear.

'T was not the usual time of year,
When the stout saint is wont t' appear;
But of improvements he had heard,
And curiosity had stirred

Him up to take a hasty view
Of what they had contrived of new;
And there he stood before the porch,
And railed away at that old church,
Stamping his feet, gritting his teeth,'
And getting most dreadfully out of breath.
And then he swore, as I have said,

In a style that would have scared the dead.
What wonder he should rave like mad,
Being the first view he had had!

They call those 'Grecian columns,' eh?
Good LORD! what would a Grecian say!
Four-sided gutters upright set;

Those hollow pipes will warp, I'll bet;
I'll have them down; they'll do some good,
Mending the bridges on the road.'

Why did they it? How dared they to,
In spite of me, this horror do?

I will eradicate the root

Of those on me such insult put!

Who knows but else 't will come to pass

That they shall stick in painted glass;
Apostles garbed in fancy dress,
Lictors, vultures, and a mess

Of hieroglyphics, to confound

And chose this mode to express his pleasure
At the saint's anger without measure.
After essaying thrice the note,

And thrice in vain, from brazen throat,
Now neighed a neigh so loud and shrill,
That, echoing far from hill to hill,
With the unexpected cry,

The Saint awoke from musings high.

'Confound,' thought I, the blundering beast!
I'm in for a thrashing, at the least:
Who knows but what the Saint, enraged,
May bottle me up till his wrath's assuaged!'

The Saint had heard; his teeth were set,
His look I never shall forget,
As sweeping with his eye the road,
He cast on me a glance of blood.

Wrinkled his brow, and dark his cheek;
Villain, your name!' he shouted, 'speak!'
As to the Saint I gave my name,
His face no longer looked the same:
The flush of anger straightway fled,
A pleasant smile there beamed instead:
You well may thank your stars,' he said,
"That in your veins Dutch blood flows red;
For otherwise, by wattle great,

(An oath inflexible as Fate,)

I swear I would have changed you to -
I would, I would I have it now-
To Grecian column, sure as gun;
Ay, worse than that to wooden one!

Hope to make a Grecian temple?
By the LORD. I'll make example
Of all contriving of this deed
And give to them their proper meed.
But mark me now, and tell the truth,
And seek not to deceive me, youth,
Answer me, Sir; had you, or yours,
A hand in getting up this curse?
For it you had' 'I swear,' I cried,
The monstrous charge I can't abide;
Not guilty of this crime I plead.
In the behalf of all my blood;
As sinful man, I swear to you,
Good Saint NICHOLAS, it is true.'

Call me not saint, nor call me good;

Hark in what strait you might have stood;
On all abettors hear my curse,
And if you can, imagine worse!

6 An old Dutch church! A Grecian porch!
Will I not well their bowels scorch!
Not a poor drop of arrack punch,
Not one fat slice of reeking haunch,
Shall pass their throats, or wet their lips.
They fear me not, but for these sceptics,
I doom them all to be dyspeptics.
Their children I will leave in lurch,
Or in each stocking put a birch:

That Christmas more shall ne'er come round,

That ought that's good shall there be found;

The boys in empty socks shall look

In vain for toy or story book;

And to fill full the bitter cup,
In time forget to hang them up!
Ay, more; no cookie shall be baked
For them, until my wrath is slaked;
Until the extirpation of this wart,
Unworthy synod old of Dort:

From old proportions they shall dwindle,
Till each is thin as any spindle.

To each of those that had a hand, In this corruption of the land,

In sorrow half, and half in wrath,
This horrid sentence I bequeath:
No pipe of Delft, at setting sun,
When the day's mowing hath been done,
Shall give its scent to summer air,
Or hide in smoke, each thought of care;
Nor shall he watch, on Autumn days,
The vapor mingling with the haze,
While pleasant visions throng his brain,
(Flitting out and in again.)

Of golden crops, and barns well-filled,
Of meadows rich, and fields well tilled,
Of goose well stuffed, and Christmas pies;
No more, I say, such dreams shall rise,
But he shall think of stocks depressed,
And loans and bonds give him no rest;
Nor yet when Winter comes, in doors,
Because of carpets on the floors,
Shall the blest weed his joys increase,
And he be left to smoke in peace;
His daughters, fashionable girls
Shall be, with airs and yard-long curls,
With bonnets French, and waspish waists,
Such as a Christian saint detests,
And they shall alway be provoking
Their precious Sire about his smoking;
'Father, 't is vulgar, and we hate
This horrid smell, early and late;'

And then when spring hath brought the earth Once more unto another birth.

Still, still the same his fate shall be,

N ver the smoke of pipe to see.
Or watch the spirals curling high,
Wooing the ceiling or the sky.

Each breach of rule shall be reported,
And all his pleasures shall be thwarted;
And all shall live such dismal lives.
And all be cursed with shrewish wives.
This to their offspring shall enure
Long as their race shall still endure.'

This execration touched not me;
I felt for others' misery,

And trembled in my stirrups at

This dreadful doom, this awful fate;
And had I dared, had said a word
For those that he so much abhorred;
But fearing to excite anew

The hurricane that lately blew,

I chained my tongue, and held my peace,
Waiting till rage and storm should cease:
Nor waited long; for as he stood,
Softened his heart and changed his mood.
Sobbing as if his heart would break,
With hands upraised, once more he spake :
'Oh, how degenerate the nation!
How fallen is my congregation !'

At these his words I gently smiled,
And, trusting to his aspect mild,
I ventured to expostulate
And in extenuation state,

That this, I thought, was no doubt done
To shield them from the rain or sun.

'Better to roast,' the saint broke in,

'On earth to roast, than die in sin,
And fry !' He ceased; his ear had caught
A stray blast from the south: 't was fraught
With sound of distant cart or coach,
To warn the saint of man's approach.

'Lo, ye!' he cried, another sign That all is past for me and mine! Time was, from here to Tarrytown

I might have passed, and farther downTo Nyack, on the other shore,

And up the bay to Haverstraw-
And heard no sound, and seen no light,
At this so late hour of the night.
Did I but know (as sure as Fate)
But where to go, I'd emigrate!

'Farewell, my son!-be true and bold,
And stick to fashions that are old;
Lift up your voice and wield your pen
For old Saint NICHOLAS; and when
Cast down by trouble or by care,
Call upon him-he will be there.

'Impress on all the downright need

Of Christmas dinners, would they speed;
Of hanging aye the stocking up,
And cracking to my health a cup;
But most, inculcate upon all
Of Grecian counterfeits the fall;
Your life and interests shall then
Be dear to Dutch-descended men,
And you shall prosper; never ask
In vain for punch or jolly flask,
And never want a cookie fresh,
Pipe, sausage, pie, or onion-hash;
And you shall flourish in your time,
And I will lengthen out your prime;
And when you die, your memory,
If with none else, shall dwell with me.'

He touched the door: the leaves flew wide

As if in sympathy, they sighed,
Then closed once more. I looked again,
And there on VRERICH FLEIPSE'S Vane
(With his initials cut therein,)

The saint was poised, as used he'd been
Upon the tight rope to display
His active form for many a day.

But now the saint looked pale and wan,
And down his cheeks the tear-drops ran;
The wind blew out his long gray beard,
Which, mingling with the mist, appeared
Like the weird moss that curtains round
The cypress tall in swampy ground;
Around him wrapped his mantle old,
His motions still his anguish told;

His breast heaved hard, his voice was choked;
You scarce had thought he e'er had joked;
His form, relieved against the sky,
Like shadowy statue loomed on high;
And first he stood, his arms extended,
Then raised them up as down he bended,
And muttered low, as if addressing
The GoD of Heaven for a blessing;
Then as he stood astride the steeple
He thus rebuked his haunts his people:

'Oh, Dutchmen! Dutchmen! where were ye
When this reproach was cast on me?
Ah, wo is me!-my time is past,
And I must flee the land at last!
And modern (damned) improvement saints
Will occupy my ancient haunts,
And lay out streets, for aught I know,
Cutting this very building through.

'How is my people changed in soul!
How is that change evil and foul!
Good, steady, slow, and sleepy men-
No vanity or speculation then!

They went to church, and slept all through
A sermon, every Sunday, new;

They made responses in their sleep,
Or if they snored, made out to keep
In tune with psalms that old and young
In those old times together sung.

'My female congregation, too,

Of bonnets French then nothing knew;
They followed in their mothers' ways,
And so it chanced they ne'er missed stays.
So, that old man that had mishap
To lose his hair, wore cotton cap.
Or went plain bald, nor used a wig,
That never could survive a jig.

'Potatoes then were never steamed-
Of steam-boats they had never dreamed;
Of telegraphs and iron roads,
And all these modern linkum quods,
That only aid the sharp and keen,
When dull men should have holpen been.

'Gone are the good of Sleepy Hollow,
And I right soon must also follow:
To that old race my heart still yearns,
And straying memory still returns.
Born within sound of the old church bell,
From children they loved its ringing well;
Where they were born they always tarried,
Were christened there, there loved and married,
Lived to old age, and side by side
Yielded to fate; and when they died,

The clods upon their coffins fell,

And the same clapper tolled their knell.
They are no more, but in their place

Has come an emigrating race

That care no whit for hearth or home-
The only wish they have, to roam.

'Not only here, but every where
My flocks are changed from what they were;
For now through all my dear loved land
Scarcely a monument doth stand

Of Dutchman's power, Dutchman's zeal,
Of Dutchman's trowel, hammer, steel.

'How is the old Manhattan gone!
Of all my haunts remains not one!
Even the chimneys, narrow and tight,
Stifle my breath with anthracite ;
And then, so crooked and dark are they,
'Tis equal chance I lose my way.
There's no place left for me, I wis-
My last old church, a post-office!
And thousands throng, greedy of gold,
Where gospel plain was preached of old:
They 've changed it all-tore up the pews-
Instead of grace they come for news;
They have turned the bones of my people out
To the sight and the sneers of the gaping rout;
But why go on, when e'en in vain
The saints 'gainst destiny complain?

Old church, it rends my inmost heart, But it must come, and we must part. Farewell, old grave-yard of the race That settled first this quiet place; Ye bones that here for years have slept, From surgeons and museums kept, My jealous guardianship is o'er, And I shall watch your tombs no more! I will not seek, old bones, to deceive ye To the protection of The Law I leave ye !'

Methought straightway a dismal groan
Burst from beneath each old tomb-stone,
And forth from each issued a ghost,
Sheeted and sad, a formidable host.
No pale, distempered shades were they
Broad shouldered, skirted, (in their day
You would have sworn, had you them seen,
Good Dutchmen and Dutch wives they'd been,)
Like stiff Dutch sloops, with breadth of beam,
As Dutch things all doth most beseem,

Their sturdy figures thro' the darkness loomed
Lusty and large, as in their lives they bloomed.

The Dutch-Reformed cherubs, too,
From carvings quaint to chubby spectres grew;
Uprose they all from their stony sleep,
With voices rusty, fat and deep;
Each in his dim unearthly form,
Adding his wail to the rising storm.

They all besought the saint with tears
(Their patron of so many years,)
His ancient charge not to forsake,
Nor modern whims in dudgeon take;
And down knelt each on marrow-bone,
Except the cherubims, who've none;
Unfortunate lads! they can't sit down,
The reason of which is very well known;
For old Dame Nature, out of fun,
Gave them no place to sit upon :

Their wings kept time with a mournful whirr,
They served as a kind of orchestra
To the chorus which outrang,
As, supplicating, thus they sang:

'Saint NICHOLAS, we beg and pray,
And on our knees entreat,
That you will never go away,
Or leave your ancient seat:
Yield us not up to this Saint LAW ---
A saint we never knew nor saw!

'Oh, Saint! thou ever hast been kind,
And we have loved you well;
And can you now make up your mind
Our skeletons to sell?

Thou canst not-shalt not-say not so-
Oh tell us quick-thou wilt not go !'

But there were other shades so gaunt,
Their very look my heart did daunt;
These dodged right warily about
The edges of that midnight rout;
Far too republican to bow the knee
To king, saint, sign or mystery;
Yielding alone to the majority,
The end and GoD of their idolatry.

Now these poor ghosts were much at loss
Whether to join the rest, or cross;
of votes there was disparity,
And they were in minority,
And yet it almost made them faint
To think of worshipping a saint.
They wished the crowd to organize,
To have a President and Vice,
A Secretary to record

The Resolutions, word by word-
To have the meeting called to order,
And all described by à Reporter.
At length one bolder than the rest
The sense of all in brief expressed;
His voice was sharp, and had a twang,

And through his tuneful nose it rang,
As like an oysterman's tin horn

As any sound that e'er was born. He made a motion with his paw: 'Down with the Saint! we go for Law!'

The Saint at him reproachful looked,
And that ringleader's name he booked;
I fancy to his cost he'll know
What the saint meant by doing so!)
This done, he gazed upon them both,
Those factious there, and first waxed wroth;
But melting tenderness again

Would work within his heart and brain.

There was a conflict in his breast,
And in his visage 't was confessed;
"Tween love of years and sudden hate,
'Tween ancient pride and shame of late;
Now one was strong, now one was weak;
But soon he oped his mouth to speak.
But ere he spoke a rumbling sound
Came thund'ring o'er the hollow ground,
Over the adverse sandy ridge,

And wheels swift rumbled o'er the bridge.

As quick as light he straddled a mill-stone,
He plied his heels, and he was gone;
Cantered away, using the rod,
As erst from Rome to Novogorod.
At first his flight was dull and slow,
Near to the earth, wabbling and low,
Which I in my depravity

Traced to the force of gravity;

But soon the stone whirled faster round,
And onward sped with buzzing sound;
And as he went, he gathered strength,
And speedier drove, until at length
With cheerful and harmonious roar
He vanished like a shooting star.

Now I must say I do believe

(With the philosophers' good leave)
Those stones that from the heavens fall
Are but stray steeds from this saint's stall,
Or else are real runaways,

That, having thrown him from his place,
When somewhat overcome with liquor,
Fall to the earth, no lightning quicker;
And though absurd perhaps this sounds,
I say it not without some grounds;
For I did see a paragraph

In next day's paper made me laugh:
How that that night a star was seen,
Sing Sing and Tarrytown between,
That bursted with a loud report,
Just as a giant-horse would snort.

But to return: the cherubs, too,

And all the rest of that weird crew,

As they contamination feared, Dissolved themselves, and disappeared.

Slowly I gathered up the reins
And of my wits the poor remains,
Wond'ring upon the world's corruption
And what had caused this interruption.

Two youths came fiercely driving on:
Oh! had they come as I had done,
Ere this two pillars white had stood,
Grecian, and warped, and of pine-wood,
A warning by the public road
Early to seek your own abode,
And not be rambling out at night,
Saints, spirits, cherubs, to affright.