Goat Island, Niagara by Anonymous

rhine
Wood Scenery at the Center of Goat Island by Ferdinand Richardt, ca 1855. Image courtesy of the Niagara Falls Public Library


Nature
 here in royal mood
Built herself a pleasaunce wood ; 
Built it on a frowning scaur 
High as mountain summits are, 
And around it made to flow 
Seas that fall in deeps below.

Near where waters fiercest sweep, 
Bade she blue-ey’d gentians creep ; 
Ferns spring up from mossy beds,
Snow-white daisies lift their heads, 
Briar rose and golden rod 
Set she thick in grassy sod.

Then her sovereign taste to please 
Planted out great forest trees ; 
Titians crown’d with myriad leaves 
Flaunting to the sun and breeze, 
Rooted them as in some scene, 
Quiet valleys roll between.

And her fancy to complete 
In this favorite wonder-seat, 
Stole she rainbows from the skies,
Bright with heav’ns resplendent dyes, 
Arched them o’er the raging Fall
Watch to keep above them all .


Source:  Rhine, Alice Hyneman.  Niagara Park Illustrated :Original and Selected Descriptions, Poems and Adventures. New York : Niagara Pub. Co., 1885. Rhine did not include this poem in the 1888 edition of this book.

Read about Alice Hyneman (Rhine) Sotheran

At Niagara by R. Nathaniel Dett

dett
Photograph of R. Nathaniel Dett from his The Album of a Heart


List
 to the sounding cat’ract’s thundering fall 
Or hark to spirit voices in the wind. 
For methinks sometimes that these strange moods 
Are Heaven-sent us by the jealous God 
Who’d thus remind us that no human love 
Can fully satisfy the longing heart. 
Perhaps an intimation sent to souls 
That he would speak somewhat, or nearer draw. 
Therefore I’ll to Him.   Talking waters, stars, 
The moon and whisp’ring trees shall make me wise 
In what it is He’d have my spirit know. 
And Nature singing from the earth and sky 
Shall fill me with such peace, that in the morn 
I’ll be the gay glad self you’ve always known. 
Urge me no further, now that you understand. 
A nobler friend than you none ever knew— 
But not this time.   Tonight I’ll be alone ; 
And if from moonlit valley God should speak 
Or in the tumbling waters sound a call 
Or whisper in the sighing of the wind, 
He’ll find me with an undivided heart 
Patient waiting to hear ; but Friend,—alone.


Source:  R. Nathaniel Dett. The Album of a Heart.  Jackson, Tenn. : Mocowat-Mercer, 1911.

About R. Nathaniel Dett

At the Grave of Abram Hull by Sarah Anne Curzon

Abram Hull was a captain in the United States Infantry, and was killed in the battle of Lundy’s Lane, 25th July, 1814, and interred on the battleground, near to the spot where he fell, with the fallen on both sides.  The battleground was consecrated as a cemetery, and is now kept in order by the Lundy’s Lane Historical Society.

hull
Headstone of Abraham Hull. Photo by James Lemon on Find a Grave

 

Not that thou wast an enemy do I desire
Thy grave shall be no mound of weeds or mire ;
My country’s enemies are mine, and I would fight
With tireless arm to guard her sacred right.
Not that thou wast an enemy and I forget
The fierce incursion—unforgiven yet.
But that thou wast a mother’s son, I’d keep,
For mother-love, thy bed in thy last sleep.
Lay e’er, my son, in stranger-land a foe,
I would some mother-breast should pity know,
Some kindly hand should smooth, as I do now,
His last long pillow, and upon his brow
Drop gentle tears for one so brave and young,
Nor leave, for enmity, a warrior’s dirge unsung.


Source: The Dominion Illustrated, 17th August 1889

Read about Abraham [Abram] Hull

Read about Sarah Anne Curzon

Read about the Battle of Lundy’s Lane

Read more poems about the War of 1812 in Niagara

Niagara by Horace P. Biddle

biddle
Niagara Falls in Winter, ca. 1890. Image courtesy of the Library of Congress

Almighty God ! who sees the dew-drop fall.
And sends the rain that falls alike on all ;
Who pours the fountain from its secret source,
And guides the river in its onward course ;
Who parts the waters from the teeming land.
And holds the ocean in His mighty hand ;
Who states the tides and moves upon the deep,
To rouse the billow or to bid it sleep ;
Who deluged earth and covered mountains high,
Then set this token in the hallowed sky, — 
Here, by these waters, in their ceaseless flow,
Has fixed His covenant. Behold the Bow !
And while earth trembles ‘neath the mighty load,
Man sees the promise and the power of God !


Source:  Horace P. Biddle.  Poems.  New York: Hurd & Houghton, 1868

About Horace P. Biddle

Interview with the Monument by Jessica Manack

manack
Clifton Hill, Niagara Falls, 2022 Image by Sobejan Srikanthan on Unsplash

“Girl, all I ever wanted to do was let go: stumble, grumbling, drunk on my own juices. Spread my thighs two nations wide. It’s funny how popular you get when your business is falling all over yourself, when your schtick is snatching rattles, wallets, cameras, whatever’s around,” Niagara Falls hisses one night, when I find myself in town. “Now, my name is known by newlyweds and bachelors alike, my sloth is franchised, recklessness advertised as entertainment. Put a penny in my mouth and I’ll grind a souvenir version out – American, Canadian, whichever currency is handy – so randy you’ll need to wear a raincoat when you come near.”  

I know a true hedonist when I hear one, but I can’t relate. Born of beings who, too, never knew embarrassment, bacchanal-bred in a house full of guns and confetti, I grew to be the cleaner-upper, morning husher of embers hot in the fireplace all night. I don’t know what nonchalance feels like, those lazylays on scenic horizons. I’m always on guard, a connoisseur of armor, at the perfect temperature in an airtight container. I wear mosquito netting to the grocery store, don’t open the door for anyone short of the police or Elvis, don’t collect the mail without wearing a barrel, don’t pummel, don’t know how it feels to be pummeled. I shy from precipices, hazards brash and shiny. You know, every fall begins with curiosity. 

Every undoing begins with intrigue: ask the boxcar jumper, the organ-grinder, the ice cream truck driver, those who’ve watched a soggy decade spring from a weekend fling. I’m comfortable on dry land, don’t need to throw my heart into a lake to know the splash it would make. I’ll never court brute force, can’t imagine managing a violence so safe that people come in droves to let lick their children’s faces, so steady it seems quaint. I will never spawn such bawdy superfluity, such abandon, enough to power a city.


Interview With the Monument was first published in LitroNovember 18, 2022

Jessica Manack holds degrees from Hollins University and lives with her family in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her writing has recently appeared in Maudlin House, Five South and Peregrine. She is a recipient of a 2022 Curious Creators Grant.

More about Jessica Manack on her website