He hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from shore;
Far he followed the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat returned no more.

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true,
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the lake by a firefly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!


THE FLYING DUTCHMAN OF THE TAPPAN ZEE: ARTHUR GUITERMAN

On Tappan Zee a shroud of gray
Is heavy, dank, and low.
And dimly gleams the beacon-ray
Of white Pocantico.

No skipper braves old Hudson now
Where Nyack's Headlands frown,
And safely moored is every prow
Of drowsy Tarrytown;

Yet, clear as word of human lip,
The river sends its shores
The rhythmic rullock-clank and drip
Of even-rolling oars.