A tribute to the Faculty and students of Mount Carmel College, who rushed to the rescue as the fire of January 10 devastated Loretto Academy.
Our Lady’s Knights of Carmel,
Whose inner life is led
Upon the mountain peaks of prayer
Where angels softly tread,
With zeal, to labour hasten—
Their joyful hearts serene—
To win new realms for their King,
And Heaven’s peerless Queen.
Their converse is with Heaven ;
Yet mindful of the need
Of toilers in the valley,
For fellow-men they plead,
Whom, when disaster threatens,
These valiant Knights descend
On Charity’s swift pinions,
Their whole-souled aid to lend.
Undaunted by the danger,
Disdaining selfish claim
That checks the noble impulse
Of hearts with love aflame,
They fly ; and all unconscious
They’ve deeds of prowess done,
Through darkness, cold, discomfort,
They toil till end is won.
Sweet Lady of Mount Carmel,
Who visited of old
The saints of that fair garden—
As by tradition told—
May Carmel of Niag’ra
E’er with your smile be blest ;
Your mantle of protection
Forever ’round it rest.
Source: Loretto Rainbow, vol. XLIV, no. 4, April 1938
Many thanks to Arden Phair for pointing this poem out to the Niagara Falls Poetry Project.
Of thee, Niagara, we sing
And long and loud thy praise will ring.
Thy glory, oft, will be expressed,
And millions by thee will be blest.
The words of man fail to express,
Thy thundering, roaring, awfulness ;
With awe sublime we are controlled
As we thy wonders do behold.
Thou art a God sent chain of fate,
Uniting lakes, both small and great.
On fair Columbia’s bounteous breast,
That by thee, many may be blest.
From lake to lake thy fall complete
Is three hundred thirty-four feet,
And at thy falls thy water sheet
Descends one hundred sixty feet.
Thou art unique in many a way
No river like thee is found today.
Above Goat Island, very wide,
And at Goat Island there divide,
And in thy wrath plunge o’er the falls
To meet again ‘twixt narrow walls,
And over many rapids go,
While reaching Lake Ontario.
Thy rapids, just above the falls,
Hath many benches. Shallow walls,
O’er which thy waters downward pour,
Which adds unto thy ceaseless roar.
Thy wonders great proclaim, in fine,
The hand that made thee is divine ;
He holds the waters and the land
Within the hollow of his hand.
Among his wondrous works, so grand
Niagara thou wilt ever stand,
Approved by His great sovereign will,
To show to man his wondrous skill.
Kings and plebians, rich and poor,
Have heard thy raging waters roar,
And stood with awe-struck hearts amazed,
In speechless wonder while they gazed.
Where thy mad raging water falls
Into the gorge, o’er rocky walls,
One hundred sixty feet or more,
And mists arise from shore to shore,
Through which the sun with golden sheen,
Brings forth a lovely rainbow scene.
O how my heart did bound and leap
To see those mighty waters sweep
And dive, and rage and foam and roar,
Within the abyss where they pour,
And seethe and plunge and dash and fume,
Then rise and partial calm assume ;
And then, between those rocky walls,
Float gently on below the falls,
O’er the next rapids swiftly ride,
And plunge and leap with rapid stride,
To the great whirlpool onward roll,
And see the bank its speed control,
Where the deep gorge turns to the right
And leaves the stream, the bank to fight ;
Where it against the bank doth churn,
And whirl and to the left doth turn,
And whirl and circle round and round,
And seems to be completely bound.
But undercurrent’s constant flow
Conveys it to the gorge below.
An awful sight my eyes did greet,
The height of banks three hundred feet,
With narrow channel just below,
Where all the water has to flow.
I wondered if it could be true
That all that water could pass through.
The under current’s constant sweep
Hath worn the channel very deep ;
Although in width ’tis so much pent
Great depth of channel gives it vent,
And next it strikes a rocky bed,
Where’ ever greater surface spread,
It leaps and plunges, foams and roars,
In Lake Ontario gently pours.
Goat Island, just above the falls,
Divides their steep and rocky walls.
When Indians met to worship God,
Believing it was his abode,
They saw him, as the mists float o’er,
And heard him in the awful roar ;
And, to appease his angry thought,
They many presents to Him brought.
Also to quiet morbid fear They gave an Indian maid each year.
By lot they chose that lovely maid,
And on the bank she knelt and prayed ;
They danced the death dance round her there,
The chief arose, with solemn air,
And cried aloud, “We give to Thee
This lovely maid, the gift is free.”
All robed in white, with white canoe,
Into the water her they drew,
And sent her down, canoe and oar,
To where the raging waters pour,
To plunge beneath that seething flood,
And there to meet the Indian’s God.
The body soon would downward float,
Where they secured it with a boat.
Then to Goat Island did repair
And there interred the maiden fair,
Where the Great Spirit did abide,
And she would be his maiden bride.
Goat Island with its beauty rare,
Hath lovely trees, so green and fair,
From which the view is best of all,
To see the world’s great water fall.
For one can stand between the two
And there can have a splendid view ;
On either side, he there can see
An emblem of God’s majesty,
That awful torrent’s ceaseless pour
And hear its mad and thundering roar,
Which fills the heart with awe sublime,
That will defy the hand of time.
When near Niagara’s ceaseless flood
A voice within said, “There’s a God,
Survey this boiling vortex o’er
And listen to its deafening roar.”
Awe struck I stood and there did gaze
Upon those torrents, mist and haze.
I there beheld a charming sight,
A lovely rainbow clear and bright.
Amazed, I stood without a fear,
And cried great God, for thou art near.
Thy voice in thunder tones impress
Me. Thou art here and here to bless.
For Thou hast made the waters forge
And open deep this mighty gorge.
Long, long ago this work began
To aid and comfort feeble man.
For in this mighty waterfall
Thy voice to man doth loudly call,
Arise, O man, and strike with might,
For this, the greatest water site,
Will furnish power for millions yet.
Who will from it a living get.
Thy vigils keep from year to year
For opportunity is here.
And thou canst build a city strong
On either side the banks along,
And in due time from Lake to Lake
A mighty city thou canst make.
Where millions yet will find employ,
Their labor’s fruits they will enjoy.
Thy products will bring blessings great
To all who dwell within the states.
Flow on Niagara, ever flow ;
Thy glorious fame will ever grow.
Thy mighty falls and water’s whirl
Hath spread thy fame all o’er the world
And kings and potentates have gazed
And speechless stood, awe struck, amazed.
And millions still, thy wonders greet,
And bow with homage at thy feet.
No artist’s pencil can portray
Thy wonders, O Niagara !
No tongue hath language to express,
Thy raging water’s awfulness,
Thy mighty, ceaseless, thundrous roar,
Thy spray and rainbow hovering o’er,
No scenes on earth that more attract
Than nature’s greatest cataract.
Sept. 20th, 1910.
Source: John Francis Myers. The Poems of John Francis Myers; Together With Biograpy. Bloomington, Ill. : Press of Frank I. Miller Company, 1911
Many thanks to Arden Phair for pointing this poem out to the Niagara Falls Poetry Project.
Aboard the Maid of the Mist, drenched from the spray,
Approaching Niagara Falls, I gaze in awe
At this wondrous sight of the renowned cataract,
Cascading fervently over the precipice
And violently crashing down upon the rocks
In a roiling boil is mesmerizing to see.
And behold! Out of the mist a rainbow appears,
Arching a span over the turbulent waters
From where thunderous roars are heard and eddies swirl
As if the heavens opened: “The Rapture is here!”
With angels descending to carry Christians home.
And I am small amongst giants (walking in the world
Defenceless against nature’s challenging forces),
Who will read “Insignificant” etched in my headstone.
Unlike those who think their works will last forever,
I’m like Niagara, trickling into the future.
T. W. Kriner is the author of Journeys to the Brink of Doom (1997), In the Mad Water (1999), Twelve Dozen Four-by-Fours (2025), and The Call of Tawiskaro (2025). He lives in a Western New York swamp with his wife and two cats.
Kriner says:
About three years ago I began writing what I call four-by-four poems: four lines with four beats per line, usually with a pair of rhyming couplets. The challenge for me was to do at least one or more of the following in each poem: tell a story; paint a picture; evoke or share a memory; express a political opinion; convey my view on a particular subject; do something else while trying to get a laugh. I’ve recently posted a fair number of them at All Poetry .com, if you’d care to sample.
Brown had come over to fight and annoy us,
Izard succeeded to blow up and destroy us,
Bold Drummond was posted on Welland’s steep banks,
Where he kept his brave soldiers close in their ranks.
Izard roamed up and down for a chance to pass over,
Not a bridge, not a ford, could he discover,
Not a raft, not a boat, not e’en a canoe,
Said he to his men “this business won’t do.”
Unless we can swim, like the Niagara ducks,
We cannot get over to strike these Canucks,
Besides we have eaten along this great river—
All the provisions here stored, so its “stand and deliver.”
Says Bissel, “we’ll march, if us you will send,—
With riflemen, Dragoons, the spoil we will rend.”
So his band it roamed round, and took at their will,
All in the back country, but the flour in Cooks Mill.
On the nineteenth October, they arrived at the place,
Where the undaunted Glengaries [sic – Glengarries] they met face to face,
The single Canuck two Yanks had to meet ;
No disgrace, after fighting, they beat a retreat.
Fighting, not plunder, Yanks hands did employ,
So they thought it the best, Cook’s Mills to destroy.
To head-quarters they march with diminished ranks,
Sans plunder, sans glory, with very small thanks.
A few days more the enemy linger,
But of our provisions they touch not a finger,
November the fifth, ʼmid explosion of bastions,
They ferry across, and eat their full rations.
Source: William Kirby Fonds, Archives of Ontario, MU1652, box 18, item G-56:
“The Battle of Cook’s Mills and the Evacuation of Canada, 19 October 1814”. A patriotic poem by “J.P.M.” [J. P. Merritt].
