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.
In a realm of song and shine,
Where God’s sweetest wild flowers twine,
By Niagara’s singing stream,
Last night in a golden dream,
Wandered I, while at my side
Was a laughing maid, blue-eyed.
Spun from the silk of the corn
Were her tresses, waist length worn;
Fragile, as small pinkest shells
Her wee ears; like jingling bells
Tinkling in the soul of me
Her pure laugh of ecstacy.
Underneath the blossoming boughs
Of the locust, tender vows
Once again our young hearts made;
While the violins that played
Of the breeze, through blooms above,
Thrilled our souls with God’s first love
Source: Tom Lloyd Finlayson. Songs of Niagara Frontier and Other Poems; Autographed by the Author. St. Thomas, Sutherland Press, Limited. n.d.
Judging from the locations mentioned in the poems in this pamphlet it seems that Finlayson spent his childhood in Fort Erie, Ontario.
I often look up and into the sky.
I’m guessing, Heaven only knows the reason why.
WhenI get lonesome as I usually do.
I contemplate about the time spent with you.
My youthful years went by far too quick.
Looking up into heaven for my uncle Nick.
Being my Cub Scout leader teaching me well.
Learned a lot more, it’s amazing to tell.
Laying on my back, I see rivers of light.
I can see water flowing. It’s a wonderful sight.
He taught the boys to row a canoe.
Down through the rapids here’s what you do.
With a paddle you could make water flow.
Making your vessel travel where you wanted to go.
Tops of the trees have plenty of leaves.
Rivers of light flowing thanks to the breeze.
One Summer we circumnavigated around the Great lakes.
We learned from his talking, by our mistakes.
I remember a river that became Niagara Falls.
The swift mighty river that became river stalls.
Rivers of my youth flowed like blood in my veins.
Learned to build fires when no one complains.
He loved to joke, here’s one of his best.
His laughter made tears, let’s get some rest.
Folks should know you can’t drink Canada Dry.
The answer is easy, just ask yourself why.
The answer is as comfortable as nightly dreams.
Canada has too many lakes, rivers, and streams.
Nighttime fell upon my campsite under the trees.
The rivers went dark, went to my knees.
Giving thanks to the Lord for the view.
So very thankful that I can tell you.
Open your eyes to the great sights we see.
There all around us, take it from me.
Source: Wayne Ritchie, 2023
At the time of submitting this poem, Wayne Ritchie was 73 years old and had been writing poetry and short stories for 60 years.
Fisherman in the Niagara River Near the Brink of the Falls. March 2003 Photo by Andrew Porteus
The forest is so quiet and I don’t know why.
Yes it’s all up to the man in the sky.
I’ve heard the water but I never saw it fall.
Now I know why humans come for the thrill of it all.
The animal kingdom keeps saying the world’s lost its cool.
The whole human race has turned into a gigantic fool.
Not one single human ventures out from their tiny abode.
My guess is humans think the world’s ready to explode.
It’s hotter in the summer and colder when it snows.
They always blame global warming however Mother Nature really knows.
Well I saw for myself, stepped out taking a chance.
Never knew falling water knew how to shimmy and dance.
The sound is so deafening, it is hurting my ears.
Water is splashing my face like I’m filled with tears.
Feels so cold to the touch, I’d love a taste.
It’s pure energy and it is all going to waste.
A sad state of affairs when no humans are around.
I really can’t get over how quiet the peaceful sound.
No roaring cars on the road with their bright lights.
It’s so much safer when I’m walking alone at nights.
I have always wondered where does this water all flow?
One day I shall follow it, I’m quisitive you know.
Does this flow into a river, to a very large lake?
It’s a life changing moment, I know I should take.
As for now I’ll just stand here and admire the view.
I’ll pretend the wind is a human, like I’m talking to you.
Wait! Is that a human fishing down on the shore?
I must visit him, maybe he will tell me more.
I bet you he’s kind hearted and will toss me a fish.
I’ve yet to meet a mean human, I can only wish.
Now how do I get there? Well look there’s a trail.
I’m a kind thoughtful animal from my antlers to tail.
So this is what the humans call the mighty Niagara Falls.
A true sign of mother nature when she bids her calls.
A majestic beautiful true life drama to feel and see.
Now let’s head to that fisherman, hope he’ll be nice to me.
Source: Wayne Ritchie, 2023
At the time of submitting this poem, Wayne Ritchie was 73 years old and had been writing poetry and short stories for 60 years.
Atlength with more than human strength, ‡‡‡‡The Huron’s deadly foe, Seizedonhisthroatandheldhimdown, ‡‡‡‡Tosuffocatebelow. Hardwasthestruggle, and the waves ‡‡‡‡Contending claim theirprey, Ando’erthe dyingHurondance; ‡‡‡‡Then bearhiscorpseaway.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡XXXV.
AllhelplessfloatstheIroquois, ‡‡‡‡Andoftaroundisroll’d. Tillon a frailandbrokenwreck, ‡‡‡‡Hefaintlymakeshishold. Nopowerhadhetotemptthedeep, ‡‡‡‡Hiswontedstrengthwasgone, Andev’rypassingwavethatrose, ‡‡‡‡Frownedonhimasitsown.
YeSpiritsofthewaterycaves, ‡‡‡‡Fromheryourdangersstay, Granther the objectofherhopes, ‡‡‡‡Andsafelyspeedherway. She nearsthe dark and fainting brave, ‡‡‡‡And‘midtheWhirlpool’sroar Sheliftshiminherfragileboat, ‡‡‡‡Andturnshercoursetoshore.
Source: Cooper, James Fenimore [attributed to]. A Legend of the Whirlpool. Buffalo: Thomas & Co., 1840.
The text also contains notes that Cooper wrote about the Whirlpool before the poem; and some explanatory notes about the poem at the end. See the full text at Hathi Trust
Note on the first page: A part of this Legend was published in the United States Magazine [and Democratic Review], October 1839. It is authored by “S. de V.,” and has the epigram: “This grand and beautiful scene is three miles from the Falls of Niagara, and four miles from the Village of Lewiston.” It can be viewed at the Hathi Trust.
