Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/104

POEMS OF MANHATTAN 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.

FUIT ILIUM

by one they died,—

Last of all their race;

Nothing left but pride,

Lace, and buckled hose.

Their quietus made,

On their dwelling-place

Ruthless hands are laid:

Down the old house goes!

See the ancient manse

Meet its fate at last!

Time, in his advance,

Age nor honor knows;

Axe and broadaxe fall,

Lopping off the Past:

Hit with bar and maul,

Down the old house goes!

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