In nature, all acts that have gone before
Leave traces, record marks, clues, tracks in store
That many persons pause to ponder o’er.
From inside outwards was the earth’s crust made,
The hollows caved in, the high mountains stayed,
Encircling flames produced the waters vast,
And time and seasons scaled things to the last.
Would thirty thousand years of effort score
On your astonishment a mark, or more?
Then hearken to a tale of work replete
With action in rain, sunshine, frost and sleet.
The speaker is NIAG’RA RIVER, old,
Clear, turbulent, odd, scenic giver, bold.
With strength unshorn by time, and white of brow,
But not from years, I am the center now
For myriads that travel from far and
Near to view my Falls as the cascade grand.
My life is in the cycle of the rain,
My strength from waters the Great Lakes retain.
The first to view the drainage plan, of three
Such large lakes flowing into Erie free,
Thence through me to a fifth and on to sea,
Said, “This is quite rare and not apt to be.”
Important link am I, from fourth to last,
The present scanned, the future viewed, or past.
The deep flow of my misting Horseshoe Falls,
Out does thin water leaping from side walls.
The view and sound effects are rapturous,
The roar, thump grind and spray continuous.
At what they sense, the millions gaze appalled,
Awondering, breath indrawn, stilled, enthralled. Continue reading “The River Niagara by Donald Lashelle”→
Formed when the oceans were fashioned, when all the world ‡‡was a workshop;
Loud roared the furnace fires, and tall leapt the smoke ‡‡from volcanoes,
Scooped were round bowls for lakes, and grooves for the ‡‡sliding of rivers,
Whilst, with a cunning hand, the mountains were linked ‡‡together.
Then through the daw-dawn, lurid with cloud, and rent ‡‡by forked lightning,
Striken by earthquake beneath, above by the rattle of ‡‡thunder,
Sudden the clamour was pierced by a voice, deep-lunged ‡‡and portentous —
Thine, O Niagara, crying: “Now is created completed!”
Millions of cup-like blossoms, brimming with dew and with ‡‡rain-drops,
Mingle their tributes together to form one slow-trickling ‡‡brooklet;
Thousands of brooklets and rills, leaping down from their ‡‡home in the uplands,
Grow to a smooth, blue river, serene and flowing in ‡‡silence.
Hundreds of smooth, blue rivers, flashing afar o’er the ‡‡prairies,
Darkening ‘neath forests of pine, deep drowning the reeds ‡‡in the marshes,
Cleaving with noiseless sledge the rocks red-crusted with ‡‡copper,
Circle at last to one common goal, the Mighty Sea-Water.
Lo! to the northward outlying, wide glimmers the stretch ‡‡of the Great Lake,
White-capped and sprinkled with foam, that tumbles its ‡‡bellowing breakers
Landward on beaches of sand, and in hiding-holes hollow ‡‡with thunder,
Landward where plovers frequent, with the wolf and the ‡‡westering bison. Continue reading “Niagara by George Houghton”→
“It was a Sabbath of the Soul”;
I heard the distant cataract roll
Its choral anthem high,
Whilst from the forest’s deep repose
A breath of mingled fragrance rose,
Like incense to the sky.
Its azure dome was o’er my head,
The green leaves started at my tread,
As if disturbed in prayer;
‘T was nature’s worship — we alone
Could jar its harp-strings — not a tone
But breathed in concert there.
I saw, below my verdant seat,
The swift Niagara at my feet,
As in a prison bound;
A rocky bed, with graceful bend
And narrow outlets at each end,
Encircled it around.
While the proud rapids seem to pause
Indignantly to view the cause
Of their unwont delay —
In solemn majesty, they turned,
Lingering, as if themselves they spurned,
In durance thus to stay.
In circling eddies round and round,
I saw the careless driftwood bound,
And watched it on its way,
Borne gayly on the rapids’ crest,
Till on the water-giant’s breast,
The passive victim lay.
Within the whirlpool’s false embrace,
Condemned with never-ceasing pace
Their aimless course to run,
Without a hope or goal in view,
An endless journey to pursue,
Beginning, never done.
Yet viewlessly these links confine,
Brighter than diamond sparks they shine,
And merrily they flow,
Whilst each fair shore stands smiling by,
And still the dancing waters fly,
To music, as they go.
And then I felt like one who dreams,
And all his airy visions deems
Realities of life;
The senseless logs like men were seen, —
A metamorphosis, I ween,
Not much with truth at strife.
For is not human life a stream,
Whose rapids (cares and pleasures) seem
To us but infant’s play,
Till, into passion’s current hurled,
Amid its restless vortex whirled,
We chase the hours away?
What are the chains the hands have wrought?
The strongest chain is made of thought,
The poet said of yore;
Spellbound by habit, thus we see,
The ocean of eternity,
Yet seek its bliss no more.
O would we nature’s lessons read,
And draw our pure, exalted creed
From her celestial lore,
All earth would then be hallowed ground,
In every stream some virtue found
The spirit’s woes to cure.
Source: Myron T. Pritchard, comp. Poetry of Niagara. Boston: Lothrop Publishing Co., 1901.
Originally published in Susan Hill Todd’s Occasional Poems: a New Year’s Offering. Boston: W. Crosby and H. P. Nichols, 1851