University of Virginia Library

In sixteen hundred and thirty-nine—
Back in the foggy past how far!
Jonas Bronck, of an old Dutch line,
Being the earliest white grantee
Under the Sachems of Ranacque—
Owned the land, by unquestioned claim
Later known by the lordly name
Of “the Manor of Morrisania;”
Then it was “Bronck's land”—and that is why
The little river that eddied by,
(Which every one who beholds it, knows
Is the crookedest river that ever froze)
Twisting and doubling along its way,
Received the name that it bears to-day;
“Bronck's,” not “Bronx,” did they call it then,
All who knew it, with tongue and pen—
And no historian knows or recks—
Not even Bolton has tried to guess—
When the river took on the puzzling “x”
Instead of the ancient “c k s.”

Of Jonas Bronck there is little trace,
He left no child in his name or place,
His widow alone was his legatee—
Antonia Slaghboom she used to be
When she was called by her maiden name,
In far-off Holland, whence she came;
And when in his portly prime, he died,
His lonesome widow became the bride
Of another Dutchman, whose lordlier name
Arendt von Curler—is known to fame
In “Curls” and “Corlears” up and down,
Though few remember his old renown.

Jonas Bronck was a man of tact,
Wise to purpose and prompt to act,
And though so short was his earthly span,
The way he managed his forest tract
Proved him a sharp and thrifty man.

Thus said he to Peter Andriessen
And Laurent Dayts—two poorer men.

“I lease you a certain lot of land
Which stretches over against the plain
And the river, also, of Manhattan,
And from these acres, on every hand,
You shall drive the wild-cats and clear the trees,
And stumps and bushes; and if you please,
When nature is conquered by ax and blaze,
Shall plant tobacco, and likewise maize,
And reap what profit you may and can,
On this condition, you understand,
That each two years you shall clear still more
Of new wild space in this rough domain,
While all you have cleared and tilled before
Comes back to me, Jonas Bronck, again;
And these wide reaches of fruitful ground
In proper order shall all be found
For me to harrow and sow with grain.”

How wisely the wily Jonas planned,
Thus, with no effort of foot or hand,
But only work of a nimble brain,
To make smooth acres of waste wild land!

Then, 'tis said—in the olden days
Ere Jonas Bronck and his wife were dreams,
While still they lived on their manor here,
And counted their acres, and made good cheer,
Wild-cats prowled in the forest ways
And rattlers hid in the boulders' seams—
But nothing fiercer than meadow-mouse,
Or woodchuck, musing on stone or stump,
Or mole, half out of his burrowed house,
Or rabbit, fleeing with flirt and jump,
Or squirrel frisking on walnut bough,
Is seen in the winding valley now.
Sometimes there glides from a clump of brake
The graceful and harmless garter-snake,
And his delicate stripes and diamond eye
Gleam a moment, and hurry by;
Or, rarelier still, when the stroller strays
Farther away from trodden ways,
A racer flashes across his view,
And vanishes in a streak of blue.

Once, the river's secluded bends
Were happy homes of the sensitive trout,
Till man, who, bent upon gainful ends,
Shows no mercy and spares no friends,
Sullied the waters and drove him out.

Fair, indeed, is the rambling stream
Where'er it wanders, with glint and gleam,
By hill and hollow, by field and wood—
Save where, intrusive, and loud and rude,
Some sordid village has grown beside
Its erst transparent and peaceful tide,
Despoiled its margin, and dared profane
Its virgin pureness with sewer and drain;
Defiled with refuse its crystal deeps,
Blasphemed its beauty with rubbish-heaps,
And bent its force to the selfish will
Of dirty factory or noisy mill;
With these it labors and frets a while,
And then escaping with bound and smile,
Again it follows its sinuous quest,
Now to the east and now to the west,
By sloping meadow, by cliff and wood,
In search of shadow and solitude,
Eager to find, past stain and stress,
In the cleansing power of loneliness,
Its early clearness and purity,
Ere it shall reach its love, the sea.

Yet, spite of changes, there still remain
Pleasant reaches, by dale and plain,
Where one may follow the beckoning stream,
And study its beauty, and muse and dream—
Or haply stumble, before he knows
Into a circle of charmed repose,
Stillest and sweetest of bosky dells,
Rich with earthy and mossy smells,
Where foot of stroller but rarely comes.
Where the cuckoo calls, and the high-hole drums,
And ferns that shrink from the day's broad glare
Spread their fronds in the moist still air,
And white-hearts venture their trembling bells,
Sure no tempest can reach them there,
And long-stemmed violets keep their dew
All the shivery spring day through,
And scarlet columbines, tipped with gold,
Laugh at the wind and dare the cold.

Many a stretch of level green
The river borders with glancing sheen
Where young calves gambol, and serious cows
Watch indulgently, while they browse,
Or stand knee-deep in a shallow pool
Under the shadows dim and cool;
Where in their season, shoot thickly up
The dandelion and buttercup,
And ox-eyes, spared by the grazing herd,
Dance to the piping of breeze and bird,
And later, the opulent golden-rod
Scatters its sunny wealth abroad;
And when in the seedy grass appear
The amber tints of the ripening year,
The brave and delicate asters dare
The threatening hint of the chilly air,
And fill the corners that scaped the mower
With sudden beauty unknown before,
Smoke-like cloudings of tender hue,
Lavender, purple, and pearl and white,
Palest lilac and skyey blue
Dim and vague in the hazy light.

Many a pasture and field it sees
Dappled with shade of graceful trees—
Where wild black-cherry, when May is young,
With fragrant tassels of white is hung,
Which later sunshine and rain transmute
To strings of bitter and bony fruit
Beloved of birds; and the oaks in spring
Put out their tender and downy leaves
Of pinky velvet, all soft and fine,
Like furry ears of some living thing;
And eager woodbine, with clasp and twine
Round gnarly branches and rugged bole,
Its curtain of sheltering foliage weaves,
Hiding the owl's dark nesting-hole,
And the garrulous flicker's lofty home,
Or veiling close, till no eye perceives,
The cleft where the wild-bee builds her comb.

There in autumn the sumacs don
The richest colors that leaves put on,
Scarlet, golden and carmine hues
Meet and mingle and interfuse,
Till ledgy hillside and pasture gleam
Mellow and warm as an artist's dream—
Their frond-like foliage crimson-crowned
With woolly berries packed close and firm,
And never once in their ranks is found
A single cluster without a worm.
There dogwood blossoms, with broad, bright eye
Stare straight up at the April sky,
And the resonant voice of the thrush is heard
Through all the earlier summer days,
And powdery pendants of chestnut bloom
Swing and scatter their strange perfume,
And the slim hop-hornbeam's limber sprays
Tremble under the tiniest bird,
And the drooping wreaths of the locust tree
Load the wind with their fragrancy,
And sassafras, with a hundred shoots
Sprouting up from its spicy roots,
Which wakens early and blossoms bold
Or ever its leaves have dared unfold;
Then, taking thought, with untimely care
Dons its mittens for summer wear—
And the pepperidge and the sweet birch grow,
And hickory, that the squirrels know,
And big broad leaves of the bass-wood tree
Whose flowers smell like a honey-bee—
The weird witch-hazel, with magic spell,
That loves the frost and the cruel cold,
And in November, puts bravely on
Its fragile blossoms of tender gold
After its latest leaf is gone—
The kind horse-chestnut, with outspread hand,
And many another that loves to dwell
In the woodsy edges of cultured land.

Sometimes the river, that loves to glide
Where sunshine, flowers and mirth abide,
Goes hurrying past a shelving ledge
Rising steep from the meadow's edge,
Girt with brambles, a barren height,
Lonely, spite of the water's tune,
Gloomy, spite of the noonday light,
Arid and bloomless, even in June,
Whereon there clusters, as set apart
From all the gladness of nature's heart,
A group of sorrowful savin-trees,
Dense with shadows and mysteries,
Which love not laughter, nor happy song,
But murmur, murmur, the whole day long,
In mournful garments, like those who brood
On some old anguish, in solitude—
And the river answers, and hurries by
In search of merrier company.

Sometimes, a frolicksome thing at play,
It laughs and gurgles along its way,
Bounds and bubbles and foams and sings,
With braided currents and whirling rings—
Then, sobered suddenly, where it sees
A bridge defying its boundaries,
Sends softly back from its mirror clear
A visible echo of arch and pier,
Of dipping bushes and oak-tree's crest—
A drowsy picture of peace and rest.

Fair, indeed, is the zigzag stream
With playful eddy and changeful gleam,
Wherever it wanders free and wild,
Idle and gay, like a truant child—
Whether where tall trees shade its brink
And shy birds warble, and pause to drink,
And the wilful grape-vine grips and clings—
Sweetest of all sweet vernal things
In early May, when it shyly flowers,
And sheds a fragrance that almost seems
Wafted down from some realm of dreams
Far from this humdrum world of ours—
Mounts to the topmost branch, and there
Winds and tangles and hangs and swings,
Ripening its fruit in the light and air,
Sparse black clusters of keenest sour,
Far from the boldest climber's power,
Out of the reach of all but wings—
Or whether it slowly winds and creeps
Past marshy flats, where the tortoise sleeps,
Where muskrats paddle, and frogs abide
And fearless, anchor their clustered eggs,
Where skaters circle, and dart, and glide,
And tadpoles wriggle, and wait for legs—
And strong sharp grasses, which cut like knives,
Shoot up and bourgeon with downy plume,
And worlds of reptile and insect lives
Bask and thrive in the moist warm air—
Blest existence, without a care
Or grief to sadden, or dream to mock!
Where bladderwort and the spearmint bloom,
And the arrow-head, and the spatter-dock,
With scores of other bibulous things
Which love the presence of oozy springs
And boggy hollows, and gladly flock
Where lazy rivers are warm and slow,
Tired, mayhap, with their long wild race,
And finding Swampland a pleasant place
Ponder whether to stay or go.

Anon it wanders in hollows dim
Past fallen tree-trunks and riven limb,
Where the hemlocks spread their arms so wide
They meet the boughs on the other side,
And even noonday is cool and dark—
Where willows dip in the purling tide,
And spotted sycamore sheds its bark,
And (since the loveliest spots must bear
Some trace of evil, however fair)
The poison ivy, with venomed clutch
Grasps at the wanderer passing there—
And tall lobelia with spikes of blue
Heightens the cardinal's vivid hue,
And the jewel-weed's translucent stems
Are hung with flowers like pensile gems,
And petulant pods, that snap and fly
And scatter their seeds at the lightest touch.

But who shall reckon the whole sweet list
Of lovely places it wanders through,
Now dark with shadow, now sunlight-kissed,
Now skirting towns and now lost in woods,
This pleasant river of many moods
Which Jonas Bronck and Antonia knew?

Four years only did Jonas dwell
On the virgin manor he loved so well;
Four years only he saw the soil
Growing smooth by his tenants' toil;
Four years only he watched the flow
Of the river doubling to and fro,
And then he yielded to austere fate
And left his widow his real estate,
Whence, not long after, the record stands,
It passed to Arendt von Curler's hands.

But still, recalling his ancient claim,
The faithful river retains his name;
The urchin whispers it, when he steals
From work or lessons to fish for eels;
His sister breathes it, who seeks its brink
For freckled lily and bright rock-pink;
The wild-goose shouts it, as soaring high
She sails at night through the listening sky;
And even the frogs, who love to dwell
In its deepest gullies, have kept it well;
And many a time when the summer eves
Melt softly into the haunted night,
When sweet airs whisper among the leaves,
And the moon dim-silvers vale and height,
When the tree-toads trill and the crickets sing,
And the world is resting from toil and jar—
When night-hawks circle on silent wing,
To spy where the sleeping nestlings are—
When katydids are in every tree,
And the watch-dog's bark sounds faint and far
From village kennel or distant farm,
And the river slumbers peacefully
In mystic quiet—so still and calm
That it mirrors the smile of the even-star—
Then the screech-owl, high in the blasted oak,
Screams “Jo-o-o-nas! Jo-o-o-nas!” for all her song,
And deep in the waters, the bull-frogs croak
“Bronck! Bronck! Bronck! Bronck!” the whole night long.

So, though from all human memory
In the hurry and rush of future time,
May perish the name of the old grantee,
And even this poor remembering rhyme
May be forgotten, may fade and fail—
Still, long as the wild-geese fly by night,
And greet, in passing, the river's gleam,
A zigzag crinkle of silver light—
And the bull-frogs boom, and the screech-owls wail,
His name will linger, a midnight dream
In the shadowy depths of the winding vale
Where wanders, faithful in time's despite,
The haunted tide of his namesake stream.