Poetry of and about Niagara Falls & the Niagara River – the waterfalls, the city, the history, the stunters, and everything else Niagara
lovers leaps
If Lovers‘ Leaps were now the fashion,
‡‡‡‡As they were in days of yore,
O what a place to drown the passion
‡‡‡‡In Niagara‘s foaming roar.
Source: Table Rock Album and Sketches of the Falls and Scenery Adjacent. Buffalo: Steam Press of Thomas and Lathrops, copyright by Jewett, Thomas & Co.,1856c.1848
This link takes you to the scanned version of the 1855 version of Table Rock Album from the Hathi Trust
See the Table of Contents of the Table Rock Album on this site.
muldoon
Which is known as the ‘Orchard County’?
Which as the ‘Garden State’?
Which captain of the Bounty
was set adrift by his mate?
Who cooked and ate an omelette
midway across Niagara Falls?
Where did Setanta get
those magical hurley balls
he ram-stammed down the throat
of the blacksmith’s hound?
Why would a Greek philosopher of note
refuse to be bound
by convention but live in a tub
from which he might overhear,
as he went to rub
an apple on his sleeve, the mutineers
plotting to seize the Maid of the Mist
while it was still half able to forge
ahead and make half a fist
of crossing the Niagara gorge,
the tub in which he might light a stove
and fold in the beaten
eggs into themselves? Who unearthed the egg-trove?
And who, having eaten
the omelette, would marvel at how the Mounties
had so quickly closed in on him, late
of the ‘Orchard County’
by way of the ‘Garden State’?
Source: http://www.princeton.edu/almagest/courseware/public/catechism/poemstart.html
porter goat 2
Great Fall, all hail:
Canst thou unveil
The secrets of thy birth;
Unfold the page
Of each dark age,
And tell the tales of earth?
When I was born
The stars of morn
Together sang — ’twas day:’
The sun unrolled
His garb of gold
And took his upward way.
He mounted high
The eastern sky
And then looked down on earth;
And she was there,
Young, fresh, and fair,
And I, and all, had birth.
The word of power
Was spoke that hour:
Dark chaos felt the shock;
Forth sprung the light,
Burst day from night,
Up leaped the living rock.
Back fell the sea
The land was free,
And mountain, hill, and plain
Stood forth to view,
In emerald hue,—
Then sang the stars amain.
And I —oh thou:
Who taught me how
To hymn thy wondrous love
Deign to be near
And calm my fear,
O Holy one above.
I caught the word
Creation heard,
And by thy power arose;
His goodness gave
The swelling wave
That ever onward flows.
By his command
The rainbow spanned
My forehead and his will
Evoked the cloud
My feet to shroud,
And taught my voice to trill.
And who is he
That questions me ?
From whom hast thou thy form,
Thy life, thy soul ?
My waters roll
Through day, night, sunshine, storm.
In grateful praise
To him, I raise
A never ceasing song
To that dread one,
To whom stars, sun,
Earth, ocean, all belong.
Thou too adore
Him ever more
Who gave thou all thou hast;
Let time gone by
In darkness die
Deep buried in the past.
And be thy mind
To him inclined
Who made earth, ‘heaven and thee—
Thy every thought
To worship wrought,—
This lesson learn of me.
Source: Peter Augustus Porter. Goat Island, 1900
It was the leafy month of June,
And joyous Nature, all in tune,
‡‡With wreathing buds was drest,
As toward Niagara‘s fearful side
‡‡A youthful stranger prest;
His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw,
‡‡While bending o‘er its brim,
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide,
‡‡And heard its thunder-hymn.
His measured week too quickly fled,
Another, and another sped,
And soon the summer rose decayed,
The moon of autumn sank in shade;
Years filled their circle, brief and fair,
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there,
‡‡Till winter hurled its dart:
For deeper round his soul was wove
A mystic chain of quenchless love,
That would not let him part. Continue reading “The Hermit of the Falls by Lydia Huntley Sigourney”
My spirit grieves to say, Farewell to thee,
Oh beautiful and glorious!
Thou dost robe
Thyself in mantle of the coloured mist,
Most lightly tinged, and exquisite as thought,
Decking thy forehead with a crown of gems
Woven by God‘s right hand.
Hadst thou but wrapped
Thy brow in clouds, and swept the blinding mist
In showers upon us, it had been less hard
To part from thee. But there thou art, sublime
In noon-day splendour, gathering all thy rays
Unto their climax, green, and fleecy white,
And changeful tinture, for which words of man
Have neither sign nor sound, until to breathe
Farewell in agony. For we have roamed
Beside thee, at our will, and drawn thy voice
Into our secret soul, and felt how good
Thus to be here, until we half implored,
While long in wildering ecstasy we gazed,
To build us tabernacles, and behold
Always thy majesty.
Fain would we dwell
Here at thy feet, and be thy worshipper,
And from the weariness and dust of earth
Steal evermore away. Yea, were it not
That many a care doth bind us here below,
And in each care, a duty, like a flower,
Thorn-hedged, perchance, yet fed with dews of heaven,
And in each duty, an enclosed joy,
Which like a honey-searching bee doth sing, —
And were it not, that ever in our path
Spring up our planted seeds of love and grief,
Which we must watch, and bring their perfect fruit
Into our Master‘s garner, it were sweet
To linger here, and be thy worshipper,
Until death‘s footstep broke this dream of life.
Source: Sigourney, Lydia H. Scenes In My Native Land. London: W. Tweedie, 1844. p. 236-237.