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 '13 
 
 
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In Swabia's forest, wild and black, 
 A weary traveller lost his track : 
 Dark was the night — the thunder's crash 
 Swift followed on the lightening's flash ; 
 And aweful as the tempest spoke, 
 Responsive groaned the blasted oak. 
 The way-worn man, with rueful gaze, 
 Eyed the red lightening's fearful blaze ; 
 And, as the rattling thunder past, 
 Lost in the howlings of the blast, 
 He muttered Pater-nosters seven, 
 To avert the threatening wrath of heaven. 
 Once in the pauses of the storm, 
 It seemed some strange unearthly form, 
 Glared in a flash of lurid light ; 
 And, as it crost his withered sight, 
 The spectre that he gazed upon, 
 Seemed like a flying skeleton ! 
 
Swift as a dart the phantom past ; 
 Strange sounds were borne upon the blast- 
 A dizzying whirl — a dreadful clicking, 
 Like the portentous death-watch ticking : 
 Then louder than the river rock, 
 
 Pealed the dread name of ' Wodenblock. 
 
 •& * * * 
 
 And had he with unblasted sight 
 Beheld that strange mysterious night ! 
 The terror of the old and young, 
 Theme of the crone's low chaunted song. 
 The boldest hearts sustained a shock, 
 At the dread name of ' Wodenblock.' 
 That awful one, who restless flew 
 From clime to clime, the wretched Jew. 
 
 
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Who, wandering, for his crime atones, 
 Wears still his flesh upon his bones, 
 With decent covering from the weather. 
 But Wodenblock was doomed for ever 
 A naked skeleton to stray, 
 Dragged by his fatal leg away. 
 No sin was his, or cause of shame, 
 Twas Turningvort had all the blame. 
 Then thrice accurst be Turningvort, 
 The great artificer of Dort. 
 
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The unities of time and place, 
 
 We must infringe, and backward trace 
 
 Our steps some fifty years or so, 
 
 And thus unfold our tale of woe. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 There lived in Rotterdam's fair city, 
 A burgomaster rich --'Twas pity 
 With wit, wealth, power, consideration, 
 He still was fated amputation 
 Of the right leg to undergo — 
 The doctors had decreed it so. 
 Mynheer at first looked somewhat tragic 
 The limb was lopt as if by magic. 
 


Next to replace, he turned his mind, 
 
 The useful member thus resigned. 
 
 His doctors told him, that at Dort 
 
 The great mechanic Turningvort, 
 
 Had, by deep study and reflection, 
 
 Made a cork leg of such perfection ; 
 
 So firm, yet steady, that it stood, 
 
 Walked, danced, and ran, like flesh and blood. 
 
 The news was music to Mynheer — 
 
 That very night a chaise and pair 
 
 Was sent to Dort, the boon to beg, . 
 
 From the artist of his famous leg. 
 

No sooner asked — the prayer was granted, 
 
 To try his leg the artist panted ; 
 
 And, tho' engaged to dine at Delft, 
 
 He would adjust it first himself: 
 
 'Tis done, and fitted to a T, 
 
 And Turningvort receives his fee. 
 
A sura supplying ample power, 
 To pay his daughter's marriage dower— 
 The lovely Blanche ! — his pride and boast, 
 From Dort to Delft the reigning toast. 
 
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Once more a biped — Wodenblock 
 Stands firm and steady as a rock — 
 Complacently the limb he eyed, 
 And thought the old one by its side 
 Look'd thin and shabby — truth to tell. 
 It boasted not the graceful swell 
 Or taper ancle of the other, 
 But seemed a starving younger brother. 
 
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The morning comes — and out he sallies, 
 
 Avoiding crooked lanes and allies ; 
 
 With smiling looks, and air confiding, 
 
 Down broad strait streets triumphant gliding. 
 
 The leg displayed no turn for kicking, 
 
 A little whirl — a gentle ticking ; 
 
 Was all the fault he could descry, 
 
 And that he thought would soon pass by. 
 


 
10 
 
 Just as he gained the Stadt house door, 
 A friend he had not seen before, 
 Turned quickly down the Doolen street, 
 Eager his old ally to greet ; 
 He wheeled around without reflection, 
 Quite in the opposite direction 
 To that which he had just pursued ; 
 When — as with magic power endued 
 A sudden jerk, a whirling thrill — 
 The leg no more obeys his will ; 
 In haste, he had omitted learning 
 Which spring to touch in case of turning ; 
 And prest on one of wondrous force, 
 To impel him on his forward course. 
 The act was scarce performed, when lo ! 
 Swift as the arrow from the bow, 
 He felt himself compelled to fly ; 
 His friends and neighbours marvelled why 
 He travelled with such headlong speed ; 
 Some thought him mad, and some agreed 
 That Madame WodenbJock was dying. 
 And he for doctor Von Tromp flying. 
 
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11 
 
 Onward he sped—- ah, who can tell 
 
 The terrors of that potent spell ! 
 
 The whizzing, whirling, horrid ticking, 
 
 The wild leg to his body sticking ; 
 
 Dragging him on thro' tangled woods, 
 
 O'er dykes, morasses, rivers, floods ; 
 
 Exhausted, trembling, gasping, fainting, 
 
 With quick drawn breath convulsive panting ; 
 
 Trees, houses, churches, past him flying, 
 
 His pitious voice for succour crying, 
 
 1 A thousand dollars be his prize 
 
 Who stops my course !' — so fast he flies, 
 
 The half formed words, which crave assistance, 
 
 Die on the air in lengthening distance. 
 
 Still faster flies the leg, and faster 
 
 Follow the breathless Burgomaster. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 Tis Sunday — the cathedral chime 
 Of Harlem, tells the sacred time 
 Of morning prayer : her citizens 
 Breathe the fresh air 'till church begins ; 
 And, congregated thus together,. 
 Discourse on politics aud weather. 
 

 
12 
 
 And there was Mynheer Turningvort, 
 
 The great artificer of Dort — 
 
 Sudden he starts, in terror lost, 
 
 Before him glides the grisly ghost 
 
 Of Wodenblock, i'the clothes he wore 
 
 At Rotterdam, ten days before. 
 
 The awful spectre dashed along 
 
 Like lightening, thro' the affrighted throng ; 
 
 Causing the stoutest hearts to thrill — 
 
 Its cheek was livid — ghastly —still 
 
 The starting eye and gasping breath, 
 
 Almost proclaimed the stroke of death 
 
 As yet delayed. — On Turningvort 
 
 That glaring eye, with vengeance fraught, 
 
 Was fixt — whose every fibre shook, 
 
 And quailed beneath that fearful look. 
 
 The phantom shrieked, " Thou wretch accurst, 
 
 Thy baneful art has done its worst ; 
 
 Thy leg, which drags me to my doom, 
 
 Leaves me no quiet in the tomb ; 
 
 But still compels me on to fly 
 
 Its slave to all eternity !" 
 
 The last faint words were lost in air, 
 
 So rapid in its dread career 
 
 The phantom flew ; in consternation 
 
 Leaving the awe-struck congregation. 
 

13 
 
 With silent wonder and amaze, 
 
 On Turningvort the eager gaze 
 
 Of all was fixed, convinced that he 
 
 Alone could solve the mystery. 
 
 But mute he stood — for dared he tell 
 
 His secret fears — that but too well 
 
 His curious springs, wheels, cork, and leather, 
 
 By rarest art combined together, 
 
 Had done their work : and tho' by him 
 
 Perchance this superhuman limb 
 
 Might condescend to be directed, 
 
 It still might spurn to be subjected 
 
 To one, upon whose depth of science 
 
 It felt but moderate reliance. 
 
 'Twixt doubt and fear his bosom tost, 
 
 He felt that Wodenblock was lost ; 
 
 Lost by his means — a murderer he, 
 
 Tho' unrevealed his infamy. 
 
 The thought shot maddening thro' his brain ; 
 
 Sudden he darted from the train 
 
 Which prest around him, wondering why 
 
 He wore that look of agony. 
 
 # # # # 
 
 That night his livid corse was found 
 In the great canal of Harlem, drown'd. 
 


 
14 
 
 And gossips tell, tho' since that day, 
 Weeks, months, and years have rolled away, 
 Poor Wodenblock finds no repose, 
 From morning's dawn to evening's close ; 
 Summer and winter, sunshine, storm, 
 Still restless flies his ghastly form : 
 The desperate leg still whirls along, 
 Itself unchanged, plump, active, strong, 
 Rapid, relentless, dragging on 
 The Burgomaster's skeleton ! ! ! 
 


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