Legend says her clothes were burning bright
As she ran in the flames into the ebony night
Screaming for the heat to subside
Awakening the neighbors they couldn’t believe their eyes
For that scared little girl, years later they did cry
Many years later
The screams still heard
Some say the legend is absurd
Legend has it
When you strike a match
Blood drips from the walls
Her screams and cries from the darkness they hatch
The terror and shrill in the memories of her blazing voice
To go down there for the experience is your own critical choice
Source: Tulk, Amanda. Can You Hear It? : Poetry by Amanda Tulk. Niagara Falls, Ont. : Grey Borders Books, 2013
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Have thou never seen, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡When the orb of day ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Lightens with his sheen ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Dark Niagara, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡How his glories act ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡On the foam, and show, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡O’er the cataract, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Heaven’s beauteous bow? She, who lately plumed for flight, seeking rest above,
Saw thus over Jordan’s tide, arched, the bow of love.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Hath, at eve, thine eye ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Watched the little billow ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Rise and gleam and die, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡On Atlantic’s pillow — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡When it seemed to thee ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Sighing into rest, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Melting peacefully ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Into ocean’s breast? She, as kindly in repose, sighed away her breath,
Peacefully and gently thus, blended into death.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Saw’st thou, when, in light, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Sabbath glories rose? ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡She, a Sabbath bright, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Saw, yet not like those. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Longed she then to go, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Rest above, to spend? ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Yes! begun below, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Rest that ne’er shall end.
Voices heard she, loved ones saw, sweetly from the sky
Beckoning to their holy home, wooing her to die.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡In the troublous hour, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡In life’s weary doom, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡When disease hath power, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡When appears the tomb — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Where’s the sovereign arm, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Strong and swift to save? ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡What can chase alarm, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡What adorn the grave? She could answer, HE was there, swift, the sufferer knew,
HE that through the grave had passed, strong to bear her through.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡When Niagara ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Lifts his bow no more, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡When have fled away ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Ocean and the shore, — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡She shall live again, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Where the mortal sigh ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Heaves not, and where pain, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Yea, and Death shall die. She, a child, a seraph now, leans on Jesus’ breast,
Oh, for wings! that we might be, sweet one! thus at rest.
Source: William B. Tappan. Poet’s Tribute; Poems of William B. Tappan. Boston: King, Crocker & Brewster, 1840