Narrative Poem on Irving's Legend Of Sleepy Hollow

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The Galloping Hessian of the Hollow

-“The night grew darker and darker; the stars
seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight.”
-Washington Irving

‘Twas a night like no other,
The wives do say;
The night that Ichabod was spirited away—
The light in the sky,
A blown candle, which smoked
With grey clouds coming and going it spoke,
To the disfigured specter that rode on a steed
As black as the soul, and as fast indeed
As the midnight blasts that howl and scream,
Like the sounds of a hellish festival of fiends.

Ichabod was leaving a quilting frolic they say,
And truly he must have not gotten his way;
For he walked toward his horse with that hasty step
That is so familiar to a man upset.
Katrina, that coquette, as sweet as a peach,
Must have spoken some words,
Some words that seeped
Into the mind of poor Ichabod Crane;
Oh, to win the heart of a dame,
Is a wild, peculiar, game!

Whatever the case, Ichabod did not say goodbye
To the plump and rich mansion where things went awry;
Rather, he prodded and pleaded old gunpowder to go
Back to Van Ripper’s, if only he’d known,
The trouble that would face him;
The trouble that roamed!

The night was as silent as a vacant plain,
Only the sound of a cricket or frog came
To the ears of Ichabod Crane—
The stories of goblins and ghouls that day
had begun to sink into Ichabod’s brain.
Every sound in the dismal and haunted wood,
Enchanted Ichabod, who frantically stood,
Stirring at every moan and groan,
That a bough or two did surely own.

As he faced the tree where General Andre was seen,
He burst into tune as to repel the fiend!
And as he got to the stream that was dark with history,
Where Andre was taken, and had seen no victory,
He gave old Gunpowder a blast in the ribs,
who answered with a lateral move instead.
As Ichabod tried to regain control,
He heard a plashy tramp in the grove;
And on the margin of the brook,
Poor Ichabod shook,
In fear at what he took—

There stood something towering,
Something queer;
Something in the shadows,
Something near.

This gloomy specter was a master in mimicry;
For Ichabod tried to beat him with trickery,
But the ghost would not be lost!

Ichabod went on his way,
Whistling a psalm, as if to pray,
This monster would be out of sight,
That this was just some dream or fright!
But alas! The specter was no fright,
It proved to be of physical might,
And it traveled alongside Ichabod!

Sweat had now begun to pour,
Down and out of every pore.
Ichabod thought he’d beat his foe,
Give him the slip, but this would show
A foolish outcome, of that I know.

Ichabod shot like a cannon that roared,
Through the forest as a Seraph that soared,
Passed the demon rider that sped,
With equal vigor, as one they tread!

Rising over a stately hill,
Ichabod had truly gotten his fill.
There upon, there upon that hill,
He perceived his pursuer was headless!

Frantically he sought to fly!
Kicked old Gunpowder who again denies,
The direction that his master lends;
And down, down, down, a hill that sends,
Them screaming toward the churchyard bridge,
That Brom had faced with courage—

According to the story see,
The goblin would shoot in ecstasy,
Away, away, in a fiery blast;
If only, if only, he could get passed!

Ichabod, panting like a wolf, it’s true,
Came upon the bridge as a bullet that flew;
Thundering passed every last beam,
Ichabod turned to watch the fiend
Waste away in a show of light,
That the prophecy told would come upon sight
of the churchyards spiritual glow.

Instead, what happened could not have been seen,
As Ichabod saw the head of the fiend
Come flying toward his person!
This head came crashing upon Ichabod’s skull,
And thus, the move had seemed, but null—

The search the days that would follow,
Amongst the hills of the quiet hollow,
Would prove to heighten the mystery;
Because there, on the earth where the chase had ended,
There was found the remains of a shattered pumpkin.

Daniel Roncace