Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE FATE OF THE HESSIAN, by ARTHUR GUITERMAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE FATE OF THE HESSIAN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Who blusters along with his clattering blade
Last Line: And field, camp, and prison knew friedrich no more!
Subject(s): Fate; Hate; Legends; New York City - Revolutionary Period; Soldiers; Destiny


WHO blusters along with his clattering blade,
In green regimentals and brass-fronted helm,
With blackened mustaches, and hair in pomade
And powder -- as proud as a Prussian? -- the schelm!

Who ruffles with bullies and frightens the fops?
Who growls at the tavern, gruff-voiced as a bear:
"Sturmwetter un Hagel! Schnell! Hier mit mein' schnapps?"
Why, Friedrich von Heusen, the Hessian chasseur;

The scorn of the Briton who gives him his pay;
The tyrant and dread of the Tory recruits,
The bugbear of children, who shrink from the way
And quake at the creak of his heavy-soled boots,

For foul are the rumors that darken the door
Of Sugar-House Prison -- that Keep of Despair,
Where poor, captive rebels are dead by the score
In Friedrich the Jailer's benevolent care!

The Hessian caroused at the inn till the gray
Stole over the rose where the sun had gone down,
Then strolled through the fields to the Collect that lay
Embosomed in meads, to the north of the town --

A lake that was loved by the angler, who claimed
The crimson-flecked trout of its crystalline waves,
But shunned after twilight, for monsters unnamed
Arose from the depths of its bottomless caves.

As Friedrich glanced out toward its centering isle
He spied in the thicket, half hidden from view,
A form, worn and wasted and lean as a file,
In rags of rebellion -- the Buff and the Blue.

"Ho, kerl!" jeered the jailer, "thy garments are torn!
Thou runaway rebel, come hither, I say!
Thy comrades are lonely, thy prison's forlorn.
No? Dummkopf! I'll fetch thee; and then shalt thou pay!"

He cast down his helmet in ireful haste,
He kicked off his jack-boots, he tore off his coat,
And, girding the big-hilted sword to his waist,
He splashed in the lake with a curse in his throat.

The waters, as black as the glass of Lorraine,
Were stirred from their depths with a heave and a roll;
Fright-stricken, the Hessian surged forward -- in vain!
The Fiend of the Collect had come for his toll!

He struggled, but silent, resistless as Fate
A huge scaly arm strained his thews, fold on fold,
He screamed in his madness; remorseless as Hate
A great, evil claw gripped his throat in its hold.

The bubbles rose, sobbing, then ceased and were still;
The ripple was hushed on the shell-littered shore;
The darkness descended on river and hill;
And field, camp, and prison knew Friedrich no more!





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