Source: Howard Worcester Gilbert. Aldornere, and Two Other Pennsylvanian Idylls Together With Minor Poems. 2nd ed. Philadelphia: Franklin Printing Co., 1890 .
Headstone of G.W. Reese Photo by Bob Glover on Find a Grave
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“
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.
