Portrait of Rafael Pombo, 1833-1912Dedicada en prenda de respetuosa admiración y de profundo reconocimiento a la señora María Juana Christie de Serrano.
¡Ahí estás otra vez. . . ! El mismo hechizo
que años ha conocí, monstruo de gracia,
blanco, fascinador, enorme, augusto,
sultán de los torrentes,
muelle y sereno en tu sin par pujanza.
¡Ahí estás siempre el Niágara! Perenne
en tu extático trance, en ese vértigo
de voluntad tremenda, sin cansarte
nunca de ti, ni el hombre de admirarte.
¡Cómo cansarse! La belleza activa,
la siempre viva, porque siempre pura,
no puede fatigar. Hija perfecta
sin medio humano, del excelso fiat
que perpetuaron leyes inviolables
en su incesante acción; mimada hermana
del firmamento, de la luz, del aire;
huésped no expulsado del edén perdido;
esta hermosura es creación constante
y original, donde trasciende el soplo
de su autor soberano. Algo nos dice
que allí está Dios: el néctar de embeleso
y de reparación que a un tiempo mana.
Al contemplarla, en nuestro fondo bullen
los dormitados gérmenes divinos,
cual hierve al sol el ánima viviente
de la naturaleza; y surge ansioso
el amor de familia, el de la eterna
e indisoluble; y como al mar la gota
emancipada al fin de térreos lazos,
como del pecho de la madre el niño,
mudos de íntimo gozo nos prendemos
en comunión de eternidad con ella.
¿Podrá Dios fatigar? ¡Ah! en lo que hastía
hay encanto letal, triste principio
de inercia, hostil a Dios, germen de muerte,
gangrena de las almas secuestradas
de su raudal vivífico...
Mas ¿dónde
mi mente descendió? Llámala al punto.
¡Oh Niágara! y en ti la imagen vea
de las almas triunfantes; mire al héroe
sublime en su martirio; al genio mire
sereno en la conciencia de su fuerza.
Distráeme, diviérteme, museo
de cataratas, fábrica de nubes;
mar desfondado al peso de tus hondas;
columnas que un omnipotente Alcides
descolgó del Olimpo, entre dos vastos
Mediterráneos, piélagos de un mundo.
Continue reading "En El Niágara by Rafael Pombo"→
Oh, could I gaze forever on thy face,
Unwearied still, thou matchless waterfall,
Whose twining spells of majesty and grace
My ardent sense bewilder and enthrall!
In all my moods thy charms‘ puissant sway
Enforce my will their master-spell to own;
My heart leaps at thy voice — or grave or gay —
And every chord is vibrant to thy tone.
So many years I have come back to stand,
With reverent awe, before thy glorious shrine —
So close and long thy lineaments I‘ve scanned —
It seemed thou should‘st grow something less divine.
I know thy face, its shifting glooms and smiles,
As cloud or sun upon thy bosom lies;
Thy wrathful guise, thy witching rainbow wiles
Can wake no more for me the sweet surprise.
I know thy voice — its terror and its glee
Have in my ear so oft their changes rung;
Nor forest winds nor anthems of the sea
Speak to my soul with more familiar tongue.
My feet have scaled thy storm-scarred battlements,
And pressed the moss most emerald with thy tears;
And still profaned thy lucent caverns, whence
The neophyte comes pale with ghostly fears. Continue reading “Niagara In Spring by William Carey Richards”→
Sleep, sleep, Niagara, deep beneath the ice;
Your native thunder quell, that peace may reign
About your mammoth frame; let calm entice
Your weary waters, evermore a fane
For weary hearts to perch, spellbound in awe:
Carve caverns from the layered ice and snow,
That out the gap you breathe both rough and raw;
Along your sides let chilly north winds blow,
And cystallize the limbs of every tree
Guarding the lofty borders of your brim;
Let famished seagulls from your chill face flee,
That nothing stay the zealous eye to skim
Your placid whiteness, lost in rare displays
Of wonder, dreamy scenes for all to praise
Aerial view of the Niagara River Whirlpool and Rapids. Photograph by Andrew PorteusNiagara Falls, great cataract sublime,
Whose mists, like dragons, curl against the sky;
O thund’ring god, whose movement over time
Has gouged a mile-wide path, where seagulls fly
And trace your giant steps, each twist and turn,
Down yawning gorge to where the whirlpool boils
Beneath the dancing rapids — wild they churn,
Twisting, as round great rocks the river coils —
Why now the tears? The thousand voices sighing?
Do you not hear the reverent silence? Awe
And fear upon each frozen tongue? The dying
Exhalations of spirits, which, like straw
Before the winds, are strewn to airy silence?
You hear, you see, with pity not defiance.
Aerial view of Niagara Falls. Photo by Andrew Porteus
Through the ear the “Mighty Thunderer” makes
First assault upon the senses. A roar,
Like a thousand throbbing jungle drums, shakes
The earth, calling to see what lies in store.
Then through the eye, fearing to look away,
Lest it lose one moment of such splendour.
Then through the flesh, as on the face, cold spray
Mingles with tears which awe doth engender.
Indians, priests, explorers visioned naught
Of the miracles which were to flower,
As man with his struggling, probing mind sought
And found means to harness thy great power.
What riddles since first thy birth by glacier!
What riddles yet ere the last erasure!
Source: V.B. Rhodenizer (ed.) Canadian Poetry Magazine vol. 21, no. 1, Autumn 1957.
