Classic Poem

With sword and Bible, brood and dame,
Across the seas from Denmark came
Stout Jonas Bronck. He roved among
The wooded vales of Ah-qua-hung.
" Good sooth! on every hand, " quoth he,
" Are pleasant lands and fair to see;
But which were best to plow and till
And meetest both for manse and mill? "

" Bronck! Bronck! Bronck! "
Called the frogs from the reeds of the river;
" Bronck! Bronck! Bronck! "
From the marshes and pools of the stream.
" Here let your journeyings cease;
Blest of the Bounteous Giver,
Yours is the Valley of Peace,
Here is the home of your dream. "

" Oho! " laughed Jonas Bronck; " I ween
These pop-eyed elves in bottle-green
Do call my name to show the spot
Predestined! — Here I cast my lot! "
So there he reared his dwelling-place
And built a mill, with wheel and race.
And even now, beneath the hill
When summer nights are fair and still:

" Bronck! Bronck! Bronck! "
Rise the cadenced batrachian numbers;
" Bronck! Bronck! Bronck! "
Chant a myriad chorister gnomes;
" High on the shadowy crest
Under the hemlock he slumbers.
Here is the region of rest;
Come to our Valley of Homes! "