Flow, like ocean waves
Everywhere
Reaching
Roslyn C. is a student in Ms. Chivers’ special needs class at A.N. Myer Secondary School in Niagara Falls, Ontario.
Flow, like ocean waves
Everywhere
Reaching
Roslyn C. is a student in Ms. Chivers’ special needs class at A.N. Myer Secondary School in Niagara Falls, Ontario.
Man may look with wonder at the pyramids,
May stand unabashed before the deep blue ocean,
And flee with hasty steps the wild commotion
Of trembling earthquakes on the continent !
I have looked with wonder at the statue of Apollo,
That stretched its brazen legs and ponderous feet
Across the harbor while the distant fleet
Of Egypt sink behind the waves and rise,
As seen through the brazen statue’s glassy eyes,
But all the wonders of the world are but a mite,
They are only frail toys and bubbles in thy sight,
They’d sink like broken reeds beneather thy endless pow’r ;
In the deep and dark abyss with thundering roar !
Tell me, O mighty cataract, for how many ages,
Before Homer sang or before the ancient sages
Lived and toiled for fame, then died,
Had thy foaming, tumbling, and incessant tide
Sent through the wilderness and along the craggy shore
The rebounding echo of thy sullen roar ?
Tell me how long before the Roman Empire rose and fell,
Or along the Nile was heard a trembling knell,
When the last Pharaoh to death’s summons bowed,
And gave his royal sceptre for a winding shroud,
Had thy crushing water fell without an eye to wonder
Or an ear to hear the echo of thy thunder ?
Thou art wonderful, and magnificently grand !
And mirrored in thy watery foam I see the hand
That hurls the planets in their fearful course,
That speeds the comets and that curbs the force
Of the volcanoes’ rushing fiery tide !
But what are these, O mighty cataract, compared with thee ?
What the ley Alpine hills or maddened sea ?
Yet when I see the bow that spans thy watery spray
The vision of thy fearful vortex fades away;
Then I only see the larger Isis and the gentle shower,
And bow before thee, thou mighty emblem of Eternal Power !
“Written at Niagara Falls for The Dansville Express“
Source: The Danville Express, August 12, 1886
The lights of a hundred cities are fed by its midnight power. Their wheels are moved by its thunder. But they, too, have their hour. The tale of the Indian lovers, a cry from the years that are flown, While the river of stars is rolling, Rolling away to the darkness, Abides with the power in the midnight, where love may find its own. She watched from the Huron tents, till the first star shook in the air. The sweet pine scented her fawn-skins, and breathed from her braided hair. Her crown was of milk-white blood- root, because of the tryst she would keep Beyond the river of beauty That drifted away in the darkness, Drawing the sunset thro' lilies, with eyes like stars, to the deep. He watched, like a tall young wood- god, from the red pine that she named; But not for the peril behind him, where the eyes of the Mohawks flamed. Eagle-plumed he stood. But his heart was hunting afar, Where the river of longing whis- pered . . . And one swift shaft from the darkness Felled him, her name in his death-cry, his eyes on the sunset star. She stole from the river and listened. The moon on her wet skin shone. As a silver birch in the pine-wood, her beauty flashed and was gone. There was no wave in the forest. The dark arms closed her round. But the river of life went flowing, Flowing away to the darkness, For her breast grew red with his heart's blood, in a night where the stars are drowned. “Teach me, O my lover, as you taught me of love in a day, Teach me of death, and for ever, and set my feet on the way To the land of the happy shadows, the land where you are flown.” And the river of death went weeping, Weeping away to the dark- ness.— “Is the hunting good, my lover, so good that you hunt alone?” She rose to her feet like a shadow. She sent a cry thro' the night,— “Sa-sa-kuon,” the death-whoop, that tells of triumph in fight. It broke from the bell of her mouth like the cry of a wounded bird, But the river of agony swelled it And swept it along to the darkness, And the Mohawks, couched in the darkness, leapt to their feet as they heard. Close as the ring of the clouds that menace the moon with death, At once they circled her round. Her bright breast panted for breath. With only her own wild glory keeping the wolves at bay, While the river of parting whis- pered, Whispered away to the dark- ness, She looked in their eyes for a moment, and strove for a word to say. “Teach me, O my lover!"—She set her foot on the dead. She laughed on the painted faces with their rings of yellow and red,— “I thank you, wolves of the Mohawk, for a woman's hands might fail. —And the river of vengeance chuckled, Chuckled away to the dark- ness,— “But ye have killed where I hunted. I have come to the end of my trail. “I thank you, braves of the Mohawk, who laid this thief at my feet. He tore my heart out living, and tossed it his dogs to eat. Ye have taught him of death in a moment, as he taught me of love in a day.” —And the river of passion deepened, Deepened and rushed to the darkness.— “And yet may a woman requite you, and set your feet on the way. “For the woman that spits in my face, and the shaven heads that gibe, This night shall a woman show you the tents of the Huron tribe. They are lodged in a deep valley. With all things good it abounds. Where the red-eyed, green- mooned river Glides like a snake to the dark- ness, I will show you a valley, Mohawks, like the Happy Hunting Grounds. “Follow!” They chuckled, and followed like wolves to the glittering stream. Shadows obeying a shadow, they launched their canoes in a dream. Alone, in the first, with the blood on her breast, and her milk-white crown, She stood. She smiled at them, Follow! Then urged her canoe to the darkness, And, silently flashing their paddles, the Mohawks followed her down. And now—as they slid thro' the pine- woods with their peaks of midnight blue, She heard, in the broadening distance, the deep sound that she knew, A mutter of steady thunder that grew as they glanced along; But ever she glanced before them And glanced away to the dark- ness;– And or ever they heard it rightly, she raised her voice in a song:— “The wind from the Isles of the Blessèd, it blows across the foam. It sings in the flowing maples of the land that was my home. Where the moose is a morning's hunt, and the buffalo feeds from the hand."— And the river of mockery broadened, Broadened and rolled to the darkness— “And the green maize lifts its feathers, and laughs the snow from the land.” The river broadened and quickened. There was nought but river and sky. The shores were lost in the darkness. She laughed and lifted a cry ; “Follow me! Sa-sa-kuon!" Swifter and swifter they swirled— And the flood of their doom went flying, Flying away to the darkness, “Follow me, follow me, Mohawks, ye are shooting the edge of the world.” They struggled like snakes to return. Like straws they were whirled on her track. For the whole flood swooped to that edge where the unplumbed night dropt black, The whole flood dropt to a thunder in an unplumbed hell beneath, And over the gulf of the thunder A mountain of spray from the darkness Rose and stood in the heavens, like a shrouded image of death. She rushed like a star before them. The moon on her glorying shone. “Teach me, O my lover!”—her cry flashed out and was gone. A moment they battled behind her. They lashed with their paddles and lunged; Then the Mohawks, turning their faces Like a blood-stained cloud to the darkness, Over the edge of Niagara swept together and plunged. And the lights of a hundred cities are fed by the ancient power; But a cry returns with the midnight; for they, too, have their hour. Teach me, O my lover, as you taught me of love in a day, —While the river of stars is rolling, Rolling away to the darkness, Teach me of death, and for ever, and set my feet on the way!
Source: Noyes, Alfred (poem); Bawden, Clarence K. (music)The River of Stars: A Legend of Niagara. New York: G. Schirmer, 1917. [sheet music excerpt] From Poetry Atlas: Alfred Noyes was born in England and studied at Exeter College, Oxford (though he did not complete his degree). He spent long periods of his life in America, including the years of World War II. From 1914 to 1923 he was Professor of Modern English Literature at Princeton University in New Jersey. After the death of his first wife in 1926, he converted to Roman Catholicism. He later remarried and lived in Ventnor on the Isle of Wight. He is buried on the Isle of Wight, at Frewshwater.
[Curator’s note: The Mary Secord referred to in this poem is actually Laura Secord. Fidelis was the pen name of Agnes Maule Machar. A later version of this poem can be found here.]
The sweet June moonlight softly fell On meadow, wood, and stream Where, 'neath the crags of Queenston Heights, The green waves darkly gleam. Alone the whip-poor-will’s sad cry Blent with the murmuring pines, Save where the sentry paced his rounds Along the Yankee lines. But, in one lowly cottage home, Were sorrow and dismay ;— Two troubled watchers might not sleep For tidings heard that day. Brave James Secord—no craven heart, Beat in that crippled frame That bore the scars of 'Queenston Heights'— —Back to his cabin came. With tidings of a secret plan Fitzgibbon to surprise, As, with his handful of brave men, At Beaver Dam he lies ;— For Boerstler, with seven hundred men, And guns, and warlike store, Will steal upon our outpost there Guarded by scarce two-score ! ‘Then, crushed at once, as it must be, Our gallant little band ! The foe will press to force the heights And sweep the conquered land ! ‘Then noble Brock had died in vain ! —If but Fitzgibbon knew !— But the poor cripple’s foot is stayed, Though brave his heart and true. Then Mary, bending o’er her babes, Looked up, and smiled through tears ; — ‘These are not times for brave men’s wives To yield to women's fears ! ‘You cannot go to warn our men,— They would not let you through ; But if they'll let a woman pass, This errand I will do.’ She soothed away his anxious fears,— She knew the forest way ;— She put her trust in Him who hears His children when they pray. Soon as the rosy flush of dawn Glowed through the purple air, She rose to household tasks, and kissed Her babes, with whispered prayer. Then to her faithful cow she went ; —The sentry at the lines Forgot to watch, as both were lost Among the sheltering pines. The rising sun’s first golden rays Glanced through the forest aisles And lighted up its sombre depths With changeful golden smiles. The fragrant odour of the pines,— The birds' fresh carols sweet— Breathed courage to the trembling heart And strength to faltering feet. And on she pressed, with steadfast tread, Her solitary way, Through tangled brake, and sodden marsh, Through all the sultry day ;— Though for the morning songs of birds, She heard the wolf’s hoarse cry, And saw the rattle-snake glide forth, From ferny covert nigh. She stopped not short for running stream —The way found by the will,— Nor for the pleading voice of friends At fair St. David’s Mill. The British sentry heard her tale And cheered her on her way, But bade her ‘ware the Indian scouts That in the covert lay. Anon,— as cracked a rotten bough, Beneath her wary tread, She heard them shouting through the gloom— She heard their war-whoop dread. But quickly, to the questioning chief, She told her errand brave,— How she had come a weary way Fitzgibbon’s men to save ! The red-skin heard, and kindly looked Upon the pale-faced 'squaw ;'— Her faithful courage touched his heart, Her weary look he saw. ‘Me go with you’ —was all he said,— His warriors waved away, — He led her safe to Beaver Dam, Where brave Fitzgibbon lay. With throbbing heart her tale she told ; Full well Fitzgibbon knew How great the threatened danger was, If such a tale were true ! Then to De Haven swift he sent To call him to his side,— And all the moon-lit summer night, Swords clash and troopers ride,— While Mary, in a farm-house near, In dreamless slumber lay, And woke to find her gallant friends Had fought and gained the day ! If e’er Canadian courage fail, Or loyalty grow cold, Or nerveless grow Canadian hearts, Then be the story told,— How woman's will and woman's wit Then played its noblest part, —How British valour saved the land, And woman’s dauntless heart !
Source: G. Mercer Adam (ed.) Rose-Belford’s Canadian Monthly and National Review, vol 4, Jan-June 1880. Toronto: Rose-Belford Publishing Co., 1880
Click here to see a later version of this poem, published in 1902, under the title Laura Secord and using Fidelis’ real name, Agnes Maule Machar.
There was a young lady named Carol Who found herself in a big barrel. It went over the Falls Amid many loud calls.... There ONCE was a lady named Carol
Source: Laroque, Corey. Here’s What the Poets are Saying. Niagara Falls, Ont.: Niagara Falls Review, November 21, 2009
This limerick was entered into the So You Think You Can Rhyme (2009) Limerick Contest to find Niagara Falls’ Poet Laureate
Go to the Limericks page