Annie Taylor, “Queen of the Mist,” posing with the cat, “The King of the Mist,” and the barrel used to go over Niagara Falls. Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Annie Edson Taylor
Wanted to be first over the falls
A school teacher from New York
She was gonna’ show them all
She had a custom barrel made
But first tested it on a cat
The poor thing plunged over the falls
It had no say, cause that was that
Luckily the cat emerged
A little tattered but still alive
So on her 63rd birthday, 1901
Ms. Taylor, finally took her dive
They called her Queen of the Mist
Queen of the Mist
The first to conquer the falls
But in real actuality
The cat deserved it all
The glory, the title, the award for the first
The cat deserves it all
Cause the Queen of the Mist, the Queen of the Mist
WHERE the great cataract, Niagara, fills
The air with mist, the earth with shuddering sound,
A winding path leads to the utmost verge
And down the steep a narrow stair is flung,
Confronting in its fragile nothingness
The world of hurling waters. There, alone,
A blind girl stands. As on the dizzy brink
Of Alpine heights, a snowdrop half afraid
Hangs trembling petals o’er the dark abyss
White-robed she bends above the roaring gulf
And clasps with timid hands the slender rail
That guards the deep descent. A pale, sweet face
Upraised to wonders that she cannot see,
And tremulous with passionate despair,
Half-parted lips that in their tender curves
Droop mournfully, and heavy lashes wet
With sad and hopeless tears.
Before her sweeps
The crystal glory rounding from the rock
And melting into mists of pearl and rose.
A thousand changing tints of opal light,
Bright magic blossoms of the sunlit wave,
Flash upward in their flights of fairy bloom
Like garlands tossed in triumph to the sky.
Higher and higher in showers of starry spray
Till one wild leap flings to the farthest crag
Its vivid splendour, and across the foam
There glows a rainbow arch of victory!
But not for her the beauty or the power,
She hears the sound of mighty harmonies
And vainly pictures the Unseen. And yet
Not hers, not hers the pain that wrings the heart
Of one who gazes on her sightless eyes,
And knows not why the kind, the cruel world
Holds Blindness and Niagara!
So stands
The soul who comes at last to that dim verge
Where Reason falters and where Science fails,
These were his chosen guides who led him far
Down shadowy vistas of the shrouded past
Through myriad forms of faint, primeval life
Back to the great First Cause,—a step, and then
He hears the waters of Eternity
Sounding mysterious music through the night,
He trembles on the verge of the Unknown,—
The Darkness closes round him—he is blind!
Oh, Light of faith! touch thou his closèd eyes,
And lo! the vision of a rainbow flung
Across the viewless depths of Time and Space,—
A sacramental splendour set aloft
In sevenfold glory, mystical, divine,
To span the gulf that lies ‘twixt God and Man!
Source: Lily Alice Lefevre. A Garden by the Sea and Other Poems. London: Arthur L. Humphreys, 1921.
These verses composed on one ofthe brightest of men,
Can never return on earth again.
No man like him before ever swam from shore to shore:
This was done by him as hundreds have seen
From Dover in Kent to Calais Green.
He left his wife and children dear,
His lot was cast this proves so clear.
Could see no danger before his eyes, Death took him quickly by surprise.
No doubt he thought himself clever,
Could never have thought to breathe his last in Niagara river—
Where no man on earth could ever swim
Across this whirlpool, never, never.
This brave young man, he caused no strife,
Cut down in the prime of life, left behind him a widowed wife.
‘Tis not for man to frown or brawl,
His lot was cast in Niagara Falls.
I saw his likeness in Marshall’s place,
Plain to be seen without disgrace.
Those men in his company that day were clever,
Could not see his danger in Niagara river.
It was not to be, the young and fast,
This was laid out for him to breathe his last.
As I have often said, and say again,
I am sorry to hear of an untimely end.
‘Tis time for us all to prepare for fear of this dreadful snare;
As this roaring lion is around every day,
Our precious souls for to betray.
Let us cast all our fears on Christ, and on his word rely—
We can all live happy while on this earth,
And in heaven when we die.
Composed by
James Gay, The Master of all Poets this day.
Royal City of Guelph, East Market Square.
N.B.—Your poet is about to visit these falls,
Where CaptainWebb received his death call.
Source: James Gay. Canada’s Poet. London: Field & Tuer, [1884]
James Gay was the self-styled Poet Laureate of Canada and Master of All Poets
A force mightier than war. Heard falling
sideways underfoot and over the cusp
of everything and nothing. Inspiring
rainbows in its pillowing haze. While limbs
emerge black through sheaths of ice. Dun grass breaks
through scabrous snow. Aprille. As pilgrims’ breath
unfurls at the railing and the wind beats
up my microphone. Plastic scraps whistling
in the razor wire of thorn bushes like
opium poppies. So we descend to view
the punishing wheel, foam specks floating, light
winking through epaulets on Sayed’s shirt
while families barricade their daughters
between their bellies. When Roya sneezes
she finds herself speaking English: I beg
your pardon. Elevating to the roar
above, again, flags flapping and peering
through coin-operated eyes at allies
on the other side. It’s so much smaller
than in all the pictures! I fell asleep
driving them home that night. When the rumble
strip woke us up — another tragedy
averted.
Source: The Fiddlehead, 2015, vol. 265, p. 31
Also published in Dan O’Brien New Life. Brooklyn: Hanging Loose Press, 2016. Distributed by SPD: Small Press Distribution. Click here for more information
A sound is on the midnight deep— ‡‡The voice of waters vast;
And onward, with resistless sweep, ‡‡The torrent rushes past—
In frantic chase, wave after wave,
The crowding surges press, and rave ‡‡Their mingled might to cast
Adown Niagara‘s giant steep;
The fretted billows foaming leap ‡‡With wild tumultuous roar;
The clashing din ascends on high,
In deaf’ning thunders to the sky, ‡‡And shakes the rocky shore.
Hark! what strange sounds arise— ‡‡‘Tis not stern Nature’s voice—
In mingled chorus to the skies! ‡‡The waters in their depth rejoice.
Hark! on the midnight air ‡‡A frantic cry uprose;
The yell of fierce despair, ‡‡The shout of mortal foes;
And mark yon sudden glare, ‡‡Whose red, portentous gleam ‡‡Flashes on rock and stream
With strange, unearthly light; ‡‡What passing meteor’s beam
Lays bare the brow of night?
From yonder murky shore ‡‡What demon vessel glides, ‡‡Stemming the unstemm’d tides,
Where maddening breakers roar ‡‡In hostile surges round her path,
Or hiss, recoiling from her prow, ‡‡That reeling, staggers to their wrath;
While distant shores return the glow ‡‡That brightens from her burning frame,
And all above—around—below— ‡‡Is wrapt in ruddy flame?
Sail on!—sail on!—No mortal hand ‡‡Directs that vessel’s blazing course;
The vengeance of an injured land ‡‡Impels her with resistless force
‘Midst breaking wave and fiery gleam, ‡‡O’er-canopied with clouds of smoke;
Midway she stems the raging stream, ‡‡And feels the rapids’ thundering stroke;
Now buried deep, now whirl’d on high, ‡‡She struggles with her awful doom,—
With frantic speed now hurries by ‡‡To find a watery tomb.
Lo, poised upon the topmost surge, ‡‡She shudders o’er the dark abyss;
The foaming waters round her hiss ‡‡And hoarse waves ring her funeral dirge;
The chafing billows round her close; ‡‡But ere her burning planks are riven, Shoots up one ruddy spout of fire,— ‡‡Her last farewell to earth and heaven.
Down, down to endless night she goes! ‡‡So may the traitor’s hope expire, So perish all our country’s foes!
Destruction’s blazing star ‡‡Has vanish’d from our sight;
The thunderbolt of war ‡‡Is quench’d in endless night;
Nor sight, nor sound of fear
Startles the listening ear; ‡‡Naught but the torrent’s roar,
The dull, deep, heavy sound,
From out the dark profound, ‡‡Echoes from shore to shore.
Where late the cry of blood ‡‡Rang on the midnight air,
The mournful lapsing of the flood,
The wild winds in the lonely wood, ‡‡Claim sole dominion there.
To thee, high-hearted Drew! ‡‡And thy victorious band
Of heroes tried and true
A nation’s thanks are due. ‡‡Defender of an injured land!
Well hast thou taught the dastard foe ‡‡That British honour never yields
To democratic influence, low, ‡‡The glory of a thousand fields.
Justice to traitors, long delay’d, ‡‡This night was boldly dealt by thee;
The debt of vengeance thou hast paid, ‡‡And may the deed immortal be.
Thy outraged country shall bestow ‡‡A lasting monument of fame,
The highest meed of praise below— ‡‡A British patriot’s deathless name!
Source: Susanna Moodie. Roughing it in the Bush; or, Life in Canada. vol. II. London: Richard Bentley, 1852.
