ALL hail to thee, Niagara ! Monarch thou,
Before whose echoing thunders, every sound
Shrinks tearfully away ! The pilgrim heart
Bowing in deepest homage at thy shrine,
Trembles, and sinks in fear ! The admiring eye,
Pressed by thy startling grandeur, droops in tears :
And the frail lyre that would its sweetest strains
Invoke unto thy praise, alas ! grows dumb.
Bright as the stars ! thy mantle : and thy crown,
The circling bow wherewith He spans the heavens.
And thy cloud-shadowed feet, even stand as once
At Israel’s tent, thy glorious Maker’s stood :
Of whose great majesty and power sublime,
His hand hath formed thee evermore to speak !
Source: Wood. M. Elva. Songs of the Noon and Night. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 1866