Niagara: a Poem by Abraham Moore

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡I.

abraham
Niagara Falls
To Thomas Dixon, esq. This View of the American Falls Taken From Goat Island
paintedby W. J. Bennett, 1829.
Image courtesy of the Library of Congress

 

‡‡Grandest of Nature’s works, her wildest wreck,
‡‡‡‡Or stateliest shrine !   What ear, Niagara,
‡‡‡‡Thrills not ?   what eye unstartled shall survey
‡‡Thy loud and raging waters, as they break
‡‡Full o’er the fearful precipice, and whelm
‡‡‡‡Thy sea-green Naiads a in the gulf below ?
‡‡Through many a stormy lake, b and boundless realm,
‡‡‡‡And well-fought field c thy winding currents flow,
‡‡Watering the woods, and herds, and creatures rude,
‡‡‡‡That haunt thy brink their hasty draught to steal ;
‡‡‡‡And now for toil or pastime, float or keel,
‡‡Smooth as a glass expands th’ united flood ; d
That youth deluded by the flattering gleam,
Might trust with arm secure the tameness of thy stream.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡II.

‡‡But, lo !  the rocks — and, like a maniac moved,
‡‡‡‡At once thy rage begins, and all around
‡‡‡‡Vex’d by th’ obstreperous waves thy shores resound ;
‡‡Check’d by the steadfast reef, as one reproved,
‡‡More fierce the torrent raves, and flings his froth
‡‡‡‡Aloft, and tosses on his flinty bed.
‡‡‡‡Ill fares the wretch, e who there by night misled,
‡‡Strives with strain’d oar against its matchless wrath :
‡‡For close before him sinks the dreadful steep ;
‡‡‡‡O’er which th’ Herculean stream f shall quickly hurl
‡‡‡‡Him and his struggling bark, with headlong whirl,
‡‡Dash’d on the turrets of the craggy deep,
Many a dark fathom down.   The stunning roar
Ontario’s g ramparts shakes, and Erie’s distant shore.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡III.

‡‡For as th’ incessant and ear-rending clang,
‡‡‡‡When war’s red bolt conflicting navies urge,
‡‡Rolls round the brows and caverns, that o’erhang
‡‡‡‡The main, and mingles with the plunging surge :
‡‡Or as ‘mongst Alpine or Ceraunian peaks
‡‡‡‡His angry trump the midnight thunder blows ;
‡‡‡‡And rocks, and vales, and woods, and towering snows,
‡‡Fling round the restless peal, while o’er them breaks
‡‡From all heav’ns windows sluiced the rushing shower :
‡‡‡‡Such noises loud and deep for ever rave
‡‡Among those foaming waters, as they pour
‡‡‡‡Down on that wrathful and tormented cave, h
Their smouldering crater, in whose ample bound
As in some caldron huge they burst and boil around.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡IV.

‡‡Up flies the steaming spray, and on the flood
‡‡‡‡Sheds the dire umbrage of its winding shroud ;
‡‡‡‡Yet ere to heaven it wreathes its hoary cloud, i
‡‡Far off conspicuous, In her wildest mood 
‡‡Sweet Iris k wantons there, and sketches gay
‡‡‡‡Many a bright segment of her tinted bow,
‡‡‡‡That float their moment till the breezes blow
‡‡The draft and shadowy tablet both away.
‡‡Now stand we on the thin and dizzy ledge l
‡‡‡‡Self-poised and pendent o’er the black abyss,
‡‡And lean, and listen by the torrent’s edge, 
‡‡‡‡And watch its fall, and hear it roar and hiss,
Like serpent foul m whereof old sages sing,
Or Hells divan transformed to hail their venturous king.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡V.

‡‡Descend we next to where the beetling clifts
‡‡‡‡Hang their high cornice o’er the margent steep,
‡‡‡‡Whose uncouth slope their crumbling fragments heap,
‡‡Sole track to yon dark portal,n that uplifts
‡‡In gothic guise its pointed crown, and leads
‡‡‡‡To the dread cloister, in whose vaulted groin
‡‡‡‡The shelving beds and gushing billows join,
‡‡And rock and river blend their arched heads.
‡‡There crawl the slimy reptiles of the deep, 
‡‡‡‡Glazing th’ obnoxious path, and dimly seen
‡‡‡‡By the dull lantern of that drizzling skreen ;
‡‡Through which day’s beams with faint refraction peep,
A baleful radiance pale, that gives the night
Perplexing gleams obscure, the shades of tortured light.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VI.

‡‡Press not too far thy hardy search, nor trust
‡‡‡‡The doubtful chambers of that untried maze :
‡‡‡‡Know’st thou what base its leaning wall upstays ?
‡‡What floods lie hid behind ? what treacherous crust
‡‡Roofs the blind chasm, that cracks beneath thy tread ?
‡‡‡‡What blights may blast thee, what sub-aqueous sound
‡‡‡‡May mock thy echoing steps, thy sense astound ?
‡‡Or tempt thee where some rash adventurer dead
‡‡Lies wasting unentomb’d ? mark, what a blast ‘
‡‡‡‡Bursts from the chilling entrance ! storm and shower
‡‡‡‡Breathe stern forbiddance from the jealous bower :
‡‡As if the demon of that cataract vast.
Sole anarch there, abhorr’d that tongue should tell
That mortal sight should pierce the secrets of his cell.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VII.

‡‡But now the Charon of the nether stream o
‡‡‡‡Waves his light oar, and wafts us o’er the tide.
‡‡‡‡With staggering step we scale the rugged side,
‡‡Fast by yon lofty ridge ; o’er whose broad beam
‡‡With stealthy lapse at first the glassy plane p
‡‡‡‡In one bright sheet descends, then streaming all
‡‡‡‡With tresses green, that whiten as they fall,
‡‡Dash’d to ten thousand dews and dusts of rain,
‡‡Breaks on the crags beneath, its rugged floor,
‡‡‡‡The ruins of its rage ; through whose hoarse caves
‡‡‡‡And countless crannies forced the foaming waves,
‡‡‘Scaped their Tarpeian pitch, q with fresh uproar
Rush headlong down, and deeper as they swell
The mixt majestic choir, that shakes that wondrous dell.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VIII.

‡‡Between the branches of the horned flood
‡‡‡‡With shade of loftiest growth and sunny smile,
‡‡‡‡Commingling graced a cool sequester’d isle r
‡‡Crowns the high steep, and from its echoing wood
‡‡Proclaims the tumults of the restless vale
‡‡‡‡Far round, and calm as Dian’s argent brow
‡‡‡‡Brush’d by the clouds, o’erlooks the storm below.
‡‡There many a stranger woos the breathing gale,
‡‡Worn with his toilsome ramble : there, they say,
‡‡‡‡Stern Winter oft his shining armoury s rears,
‡‡‡‡Framed in his icy forge ; with crystal spears
‡‡And diamond lances hangs each bending spray,
Each trunk with mail, or helm, or buckler bright,
By man’s slow toils unmatched, the fabric of a night.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡IX.

‡‡Back o’er the bridge, t which daring art has thrown
‡‡‡‡Wide o’er the brawling pass (whose yesty streams
‡‡‡‡Flash through each crevice of the dancing beams)
‡‡We haste : the sleepless torrent hurrying on 
‡‡Tow’rds its high leap, and whirling on its way
‡‡‡‡Th’ uprooted pine and oak. The scaly herds
‡‡‡‡Against it tire their powerless helms : the birds
‡‡Of strongest flight, down stooping for their prey
‡‡On that disastrous current, rise no more.
‡‡‡‡Caught by the liquid hurricane they strain
‡‡‡‡Their ineffectual wings, and flap in vain ;
‡‡With screams unnatural tow’rds th’ increasing roar.
Forced on at length in silence down they go,
And glut th’ insatiate gorge, that yawns and yells below.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡X.

‡‡There lifeless oft the wanderers of the wave
‡‡‡‡In glittering shoals are seen ; there sylvan stores,
‡‡‡‡Swoln beasts, and fractured beams, which to their shores
‡‡Wreck’d from those fatal heights the waters lave,
‡‡Or waft promiscuous down, where now between
‡‡‡‡Their towering banks, u far from the wrath behind,
‡‡‡‡Hurrying as if dismay’d and dark they wind
‡‡Their deep contracted deluge. — Pregnant scene ! 
‡‡Wherein fall’n power its own sad act may trace ;
‡‡‡‡Power, that by bounteous heaven from obscure source
‡‡‡‡Advanced, with boundless rule and headlong course
‡‡Long flows ; by ills at times, the rocks of grace,
Check’d, not chastised, still pours its fortunes on,
Wherewith the world resounds, and topples from its throne.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡XI.

‡‡A turbid solitude succeeds, uncheer’d
‡‡‡‡By Fame’s retiring trump, that loud no more,
‡‡‡‡But makes despair more joyless ; as the roar
‡‡Of yon high-falling flood remotely heard,
‡‡Saddens the troubled stream, that groans below.
‡‡‡‡There, save that lonely skiff, no swelling sail
‡‡‡‡Leans her coy bosom from the wanton gale ;
‡‡Lest with its eddying ebb her helpless prow
‡‡The refluent tide should seize, and drift above
‡‡‡‡To th’ howling base of that pernicious steep,
‡‡‡‡Plunged in its whelming shower, who knows how deep ?
Or whirl’d how long upon its watery wheel !
‡‡In the dark dungeon of that hideous cove ;
Whence scarce the buoyant Muse retrieves her vent’rous keel.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡XII.

‡‡Niagara, such art thou : to equal thee,
‡‡‡‡What are the brooks of Wales, or statelier Clyde, v
‡‡‡‡Or Anio, or Velino, w or the tide
‡‡That shoots the slopes of Nile? x thy breadth a sea,
‡‡Thy shock an earthquake, and thy awful voice
‡‡‡‡The sound of many waters. Grand and bold
‡‡Columbia thus, the child of Nature’s choice,
‡‡‡‡Scales all her wonders to the Rhodian mould, y
‡‡Her lakes are oceans, every stream a bay,
‡‡‡‡Wide through her frame its branching artery throws :
‡‡Her mountains kiss the moon : her sapient sway
‡‡‡‡A beauteous belt z hath wrought, whose ties enclose
Tribes without end, realm after realm embraced
In Freedom’s opening arms, the savage and the waste.


Source: A.M. Niagara: A Poem. New York: J. Seymour, Printer, 1822.  Attributed to Abraham Moore.

About Abraham Moore


NOTES by Abraham Moore: 

a. Thy sea-green Naiads.

The colour of the falling water at Niagara, though of course perfectly fresh, is a beautiful sea-green.

b. Through many a stormy lake, etc.

The river Niagara, which supplies the falls, may be traced through many lakes, and particularly lakes Superior, Huron, and Erie, the former about 1600, and each of the two latter about 800, miles in circumference. About fourteen miles below the falls it empties itself into Lake Ontario, but little inferior in dimensions to Lake Erie.

c.  And well-fought field.

This river, and the lakes through which it flows, being originally a natural, as they are now a conventional boundary, between the American and Canadian territories, have been the scene of many well-known actions between the Indians, French, and English, and between the latter and the United States.

d. Th’ united flood.

About five miles below lake Erie, the river Niagara is divided into two streams forming an island, called Grand Island, about 12 miles long, and nearly as wide ; below which they are re-united into one broad and smooth expanse, which continues about two miles, till it reaches the rapids ; down which it runs through reefs of rocks falling about fifty feet in the course of the last mile ; it is then again divided by a small island, called Goat Island, and falls on each side of it over the precipices which form the Great Cataracts.

e. Ill fares the wretch, etc.

In November, 1821, two men (supposed to be intoxicated) fastened their boat to a wooden bridge across the Chippeway Creek, (which empties itself into the Niagara on the Canadian side, about two miles above the falls,) and fell asleep. By some means, the boat being probably ill-secured, got loose with the men in it, and drifted into the rapids ; where they awoke in the greatest agitation, and were hurried over the falls, and lost. A table, which they had on board, was seen a few days after-wards floating down the stream ; but neither the boat, nor either of the men has ever been heard of since.

f. The Herculean stream.

Alluding not only to the size and strength of the cataract, but to the well-known story of Hercules, who in his last frenzy flung Lichas, his attendant, from the top of Mount Æta, in Greece, into the sea between Locris and Eubaea. — Ovid’s Met. lib. 9. 1. 211 . Milt. Par. Lost, b. 2. 1. 544.

g. Ontario’s ramparts , etc.

Fort George, situated on the Canadian, and Fort Niagara on the American side of the river Niagara, at its entrance into Lake Ontario, distant about fourteen, as its outlet from Lake Erie is about twenty miles from the falls. At both these points their sound is often heard like distant thunder, particularly in calm weather, and in the stillness of the night.

h.  Tormented cave.

The cataract next to the Canadian shore is nearly in the shape of a horse-shoe, or of the pit of a modern theatre ; and if the reader will suppose the water to pour over from the gallery and upper side boxes, one hundred and fifty feet perpendicular, he will have some idea of the shape, but none whatever either of the magnitude or of the noise of this stupendous fall, or of the unapproachable, vast cavern which ingulfs it. Its circuit is about 800 or 900, and its chord about 300 yards, from one point of the horse-shoe to the other.

i.  Its hoary cloud.

The clouds of spray, which are perpetually hovering over these cataracts, are often seen at Buffaloe on Lake Erie as far as their sound is heard. See Note g.

k.  Sweet Iris, etc.

Portions of rainbows are often seen at these falls, varying according to the position of the sun. The author saw many, and particularly observed a small segment of one about ten feet high, rising to the upper skirt of the spray-cloud, that sustained it, and resting its lower end upon the surface of the torrent, as if it grew out of the water. In an instant the wind shifted, the vapour was dispersed, and the brilliant image vanished like a spirit.

l.  The thin and dizzy ledge.

This is a thin plate or slab of rock, projecting from the high bank on the Canadian side, upon a level with, and close by the end of, the horse-shoe fall. It overhangs the base of the cliff, on which it rests, 48 feet ; and is the perilous place to which every visiter is conducted, as the most favourable point for viewing the whole, or at least the grandest part, of this indescribable scene.

m.  Like serpent foul, etc.

See Ovid’s Met. lib. 3. 1. 48. Pind. Ol.. Od. 8. Ep. 2, and
Milt. Par. Lost, b. 10. 1. 505, and Sequel.

n.  To yon dark portal.

This is a dark opening formed by the hanging rock, and shooting cataract, in the shape of a lofty gothic arch ; under which the author, after several anxious but unsuccessful efforts, was prevented from proceeding more than a few yards, by the violent tempest of wind and rain, which continually issues from it. To account for this singular phenomenon is not easy ; it seemed, however, to the author, that the innumerable columns and fragments of air, which are intermingled with, and forced down by the falling water, must necessarily release themselves at the bottom ; and that  half of them at least must force their way into the passage between the cataract and the rock. Out of this prison they have no other vent but through the vaulted opening, where the author encountered the irresistible storm, which all visitors experience, and the cause of which he is unable to explain upon any other principle.

o.  The Charon of the nether stream.

After walking down the stream from the horse-shoe cataract on the Canadian side, about half a mile, you are opposite to the cataract on the American side, which is separated from the former by Goat Island. The reader will observe, that the river runs westward towards the falls, and then turns suddenly to the north ; so that the line of the falls is almost diagonal across the elbow of the river ; and consequently the visitor, after looking at the horse-shoe fall on the Canadian or western side, must go downwards on that side some way before he can be opposite to the cataract on the American side. He then descends from the cliffs near 200 feet to the water’s edge, where a single ferryman rows him in a little wherry across the eddying torrent, and lands him just below the latter cataract.

p.  The glassy plane, etc.

This branch of the cataract breaks off nearly in an even line from the American side towards Goat Island, falls upon a shapeless pile of rocks, that have been precipitated from above, and rushes through their various openings into the lower river.

q.  Scaped their Tarpeian pitch.

It is almost unnecessary to inform the reader, that the Tarpeian rock was the precipice of the Capitol at Rome, over which great criminals were sometimes thrown.

r.  A cool sequestered isle.

This is Goat Island, consisting of about twenty acres of lofty wood, and belonging to Judge Porter; who has, with great skill and spirit thrown a wooden bridge, resting on 7 or 8 piers, from the American shore to a small island, distant about 600 yards, and from thence another, about one third as long, to Goat Island. To this interesting spot the visiter may now fearlessly resort, and standing on the precipice at its western end, find himself placed between the two cataracts, looking down 160 feet perpendicular upon the nether torrent.

s.  His shining armoury rears.

Since this little poem was written, the author has observed this expression, of which he was quite unconscious, in Cowper’s Task, b. 5. It is, however, used there to introduce a train of thoughts so very different, that he does not feel himself open to the charge of plagiarism in suffering it to remain. The clouds of spray which are always rising from these stupendous falls, are speedily congealed during the winter, and settle on the neighbouring trees, casing the trunks with coats of ice, and hanging the branches with a thousand icicles.

t.  Back o’er the bridge.

This bold fabric was constructed by protruding long beams of timber horizontally from the bank, and sending out men on the ends, which hung over the water, (and which were counterpoised with heavy weights placed on the ends that rested on the land,) for the purpose of driving piles, or fixing upon a pier of rock for their support. This being accomplished, a second set of beams were protruded in the same manner from the extremity of the first, till a second pier was gained ; a third followed, and, by a repetition of the same process, the whole structure was completed.

u.  Their towering banks, etc.

For the space of about seven miles from the falls to Queenstown, the river, or rather torrent, rushes along between two rows of cliffs, rising to the height of 200 feet ; through which during a series of ages it seems to have worn or torn its way. From hence some, with much appearance of reason, have supposed, that the falls were originally at Queenstown, where the level of the country sinks almost suddenly to a flat but a little higher than the surface of the river ; and that as the rocky bed of the latter has given way and deepened, the falls have gradually receded to their present site.

v.   The brooks of Wales, or statelier Clyde.

There are many picturesque and interesting waterfalls in Wales, one at a most romantic place called the Devil’s Bridge, falling above 300 feet ; but very few of them fall 100 feet, and the streams which supply them are but rivulets or very narrow rivers, the largest not exceeding 50 yards in breadth, and very few of them above twenty. The Clyde in Scotland is a large river for that country, but the fall is not great. 

w.  Anio or Velino

The celebrated falls of Tivoli, near Rome, upon which so many pencils and pens have been employed, are formed by the descent of the headlong Anio, (Strabo, lib. 6, 364,) as the Cascata del Marmore of Terni is by that of the Velino. See Lord Byron’s Childe Harolde, canto 4, stan. 69.

x.  The slopes of Nile

Modern travellers inform us, that the cataracts of the Nile are not precipitous, but that they merely pour down a rocky declivity, not much exceeding in steepness some of the rapids of America.

y.   The Rhodian mould

Alluding to the celebrated Colossus at Rhodes, a brazen statue of Apollo, 105 feet high.

z.  A beauteous belt

Meaning the federative principle, by which so many states and territories have been, and so many more may be added to the American union.

The Battle of Queenston Heights by William Thomas White

white
Queenston, Upper Canada on the Niagara. Looking from the village to the Heights. By Edward Walsh, c.1803-1807
Image courtesy of the Library of Congress


A Patriotic Poem Written on the Anniversary of that Great Victory

Ho ! ye who are  Canadians, and glory in your birth,
Who boast your land the fairest of all the lands on earth,

To-night go home with cheerful heart and lay all care aside,
And set aglow your brightest lamps and throw the shutters wide.

Heap high with coal the fire, till its merriest sparks you win,
And send out all your messengers to call the neighbors in.

Then when the evening well is spent with feast and mirthful sound,
In circle deep about the hearth range girls and boys around.

Bring forth the book of heroes’ deeds, and to your listening flock,
Read reverently of Queenston Heights and the death of Isaac Brock.

Oh, there are some amongst us who spurn the patriot’s name,
Who say our country has no past, no heroes known to fame.

They talk of bold Leonidas who held the pass of blood,
And how Horatius Cocles braved swollen Tiber’s flood.

They never tire of dark Cortez who spared nor blood nor tears,
Nor yet of Arnold Winkelreid, who broke the Austrian spears.

Their glory is of Waterloo, that crimson-memoried fight,
Of the thin red line” of Inkerman and Alma’s bloody height.

For Canada their voice is mute, yet history’s pages tell
That braver blood was never spilt than where her heroes fell.

To-day o’er Queenston’s lofty heights the autumn sky is drear,
From drooping limbs the withering leaves hang bloodless, wan and sere.

From fertile sward the plough has gone, and from the field the wain,
In bursting barns the farmer views his wealth of garnered grain.

Those fields are sacred and that sward shall be Canadians’ boast,
The spot where valor’s few hurled back the dark invader’s host.

The tale shall live while grow the trees, while rippling water runs,
Of fame’s bright birth to Canada from the life-blood of her sons.

You know it well ! The invaders crossed with the first grey dawn of light,
And foot by foot their numbers told and gained the stubborn height.

The guns are ta’en ! on Dennis’ flank the reinforcements pour,
While from the battery on the hill the crashing round-shot tore.

And backward, surely backward, the patriot heroes move,
With death to left and death to right and death on high above.

But, hark ! When hope has almost fled, at the hour of sorest need,
Is heard the clatter of iron hoofs and the neigh of a coursing steed.

Now let the martial music breathe its most inspiring notes,
As bursts the shout of welcome from the faltering veterans’ throats !

What spell so much could nerve them in that losing battle’s shock,
Courage, boys ! It is the General ! Onward comrades ! On with Brock !”

Now forward to the battery ! They lend a ready ear ;
There’s a hero’s form, to lead them and a hero’s voice to cheer.

And o’er the level plain they press, and up the sloping hill,
‘Mid hiss of shot and volleys’ smoke his cry is Onward !” still.

And now they pass the low ravine, they clamber o’er the wall ;
The fatal death-shot strikes him ; they see their leader faIl.

Push on, push on, York volunteers !” brave words—they were his last,
And like the vision of a dream the charging column passed.

He heard their cry of vengeance as they reached the mountain’s crest,
Then rushed in purpling tide the flood of life-blood from his breast.

You’ve read the rest ; their comrades came to stay their second flight,
Dashed on to meet the foe in blue and hurled them from the height.

Then, Canada, was seen thy might ! by equal ardour led,
Fought Indians like white men, and coloured men like red.

One spirit moved, one thought inspired that gallant little band ;
That foot of no invading foe should e’er pollute their land.

A thousand men laid down their arms to force inferior far ;
Blush, fickle land of commerce, for thy myrmidons of war.

Sleep, heroes ! Rest upon the hill where valor’s deed was done,
No flower shall ever wither in a crown so nobly won.

While Canada can rear her sons, the bravest of the brave,
From the tempests of Atlantic to the placid western wave,

So surely as shall come the day that tells your deathless fame,
Shall future patriots mourn you and festal rites proclaim.

And thou, whose sacred dust entombed on yonder summit lies,
Beneath that noble monument far-reaching toward the skies,

Thy name shall be a holy word, a trumpet-note to all,
When bravery’s arm is needed and they hear their country’s call.

And future sires, shall take their sons at evening on their knee,
And tell the old tale over, and thus shall speak of thee—

His is the noblest name we have in all our bright array ;
He taught our youth to falter not tho’ death might bar the way ;

He showed our might, he led our arms, he conquered, tho’ he fell ;
He gave up all he had—his life—for the land he loved so well.”


Source: Raise the Flag and Other Patriotic Canadian Songs and Poems. Toronto: Rose Publishing, 1891

About William Thomas White

Upon the Heights at Queenston by James L. Hughes

hughes
Brock’s Monument, Queenston Heights. Sketched by I.F. Bouchette.
Courtesy of Archives de Montréal

UPON the heights at Queenston,
‡‡One dark October day,
Invading foes were marshalled
‡‡In battle’s dread array ;
Brave Brock looked up the rugged steep,
‡‡And planned a bold attack,
“No foreign flag shall float” said he,
‡‡Above the Union Jack !”

His loyal-hearted soldiers
‡‡Were ready, every one,
Their foes were thrice their number—
‡‡But duty must be done.
They started up the fire-swept hill
‡‡With loud resounding cheers,
While Brock’s inspiring voice rang out
‡‡Push on York Volunteers !”

But soon a fatal bullet
‡‡Pierced through his manly breast,
And loving friends, to help him,
‡‡Around the hero pressed ;
Push on,” he said, “do not mind me,”
‡‡And ere the setting sun,
Canadians held the Queenston Heights—
‡‡The victory was won.

Each true Canadian patriot
‡‡Laments the death of Brock.
Our country told its sorrow
‡‡In monumental rock ;
And if a foe should e’er invade
‡‡Our land in future years,
His dying words will guide us still—
‡‡Push on brave volunteers !”


Source: Raise the Flag and Other Patriotic Canadian Songs and Poems. Toronto: Rose Publishing, 1891

About James L. Hughes

This poem by Hughes was also set to music by Alan Mills, and published under the title “The Battle of Queenston Heights” in Singing Our History: Canada’s Story in Song. by Edith Fowke and Alan Mills. Toronto: Doubleday, 1984

A Ballad For Brave Women by Charles Mair

mair
Monument and bust of Laura Secord, heroine of Battle of Beaver Dam, Beaver Dam, Ontario, Canada, stereograph, 1908
Image courtesy of the Library of Congress.

A STORY worth telling, our annals afford,
’Tis the wonderful journey of Laura Secord!
Her poor crippled spouse hobbled home
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡With the news
That Bœrstler was nigh ! “Not a minute to lose,
Not an instant,” said Laura, “for stoppage or pause—
I must hurry and warn our brave troops at Decaws.”
“What ! you !” said her husband “to famish and tire !”
“Yes, me !” said brave Laura, her bosom on fire.
“And how will you pass the gruff sentry ?” said he,
“Who is posted so near us ?”

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡“Just wait till you see ;
The foe is approaching, and means to surprise
Our troops, as you tell me. Oh, husband, there flies
No dove with a message so needful as this—
I’ll take it, I’ll bear it, good bye, with a kiss.”
Then a biscuit she ate, tucked her skirts well about,
And a bucket she slung on each arm, and went out

’Twas the bright blush of dawn, when the stars melt from sight,
Dissolved by its breath like a dream of the night ;
When heaven seems opening on man and his pain,
Ere the rude day strengthens, and shuts it again.
But Laura had eyes for her duty alone—
She marked not the glow and the gloom that were thrown
By the nurslings of morn, by the cloud-lands at rest,
By the spells of the East, and the weirds of the West.  
Behind was the foe, full of craft and of guile ;
Before her, a long day of travel and toil.
“No time this for gazing,” said Laura, as near
To the sentry she drew.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡“Halt ! you cannot pass here.”
“I cannot pass here ! Why sirrah you drowse,
Are you blind ? Don’t you see I am off to my cows.”
“Well, well you can go.” So she wended her way
To the pasture’s lone side, where the farthest cow lay,
Got her up, caught a teat, and with pail at her knees,
Made her budge, inch by inch, till she drew by degrees
To the edge of the forest. “I’ve hoaxed, on my word,
Both you and the sentry,” said Laura Secord.

With a lingering look at her home, then away
She sped through the wild wood—a wilderness gray—
Nature’s privacy, haunt of a virgin sublime
And the mother who bore her, as ancient as Time ;
Where the linden had space for its fans and its flowers,
The balsam its tents, and the cedar its bowers ;
Where the lord of the forest, the oak, had its realm,
The ash its domain, and its kingdom the elm ;
Where the pine bowed its antlers in tempests, and gave
To the ocean of leaves the wild dash of the wave,
And the mystical hemlock—The forest’s high-priest—
Hung its weird, raking, top-gallant branch to the east.

And denser and deeper the solitude grew,
The underwood thickened, and drenched her with dew ;
She tripped over moss-covered logs, fell, arose,
Sped, and stumbled again by the hour, till her clothes
Were rent by the branches, and thorns, and her feet
Grew tender and way-worn and blistered with heat.
And on, ever on, through the forest she passed,
Her soul in her task, but each pulse beating fast,
For shadowy forms seemed to flit from the glades
And beckon her into their limitless shades :
And mystical sounds—in the forest alone,
Ah! who has not heard them ?—the voices, the moan,
Or the sigh of mute nature, which sinks on the ear,
And fills us with sadness or thrills us with fear ?
And who, lone and lost, in the wilderness deep,
Has not felt the strange fancies, the tremors which creep,
And assemble within, till the heart ’gins to fail,
The courage to flinch, and the cheeks to grow pale,
’Midst the shadows which mantle the spirit that broods
In the sombre, the deep haunted heart of the woods ?

She stopped—it was noonday. The wilds she espied
Seemed solitudes numberless. “Help me !” she cried ;
Her piteous lips parched with thirst, and her eyes
Strained with gazing. The sun in his infinite skies
Looked down on no creature more hapless than she,
For woman is woman where’er she may be.
For a moment she faltered, then came to her side
The heroine’s spirit—the Angel of Pride.
One moment she faltered. Beware ! What is this ?
The coil of the serpent ! the rattlesnake’s hiss !
One moment, then onward, What sounds far and near ?
The howl of the wolf, yet she turned not in fear
Nor bent from her course, till her eye caught a gleam
From the woods of a meadow through which flowed a stream,
Pure and sweet with the savour of leaf and of flower.
By the night dew distilled, and the soft forest shower ;
Pure and cold as its spring in the rock crystalline,
Whence it gurgled and gushed ’twixt the roots of the pine.

And blessed above bliss is the pleasure of thirst,
Where there’s water to quench it ; for pleasure is nursed
In the cradle of pain, and twin marvels are they
Whose inter-dependence is born with our clay.
Yes, blessed is water, and blessed is thirst,  
Where there’s water to quench it ; but this is the worst
Of this life, that we reck not the blessings God sends,
Till denied them. But Laura, who felt she had friends
In heaven as well as on earth, knew to thank
The giver of all things, and gratefully drank.

Once more on the pathway, through swamp and through mire,
Through covert and thicket, through bramble and brier,
She toiled to the highway, then over the hill,
And down the deep valley, and past the new mill,
And through the next woods, till, at sunset, she came
To the first British picket and murmured her name ;
Thence, guarded by Indians, footsore and pale
She was led to Fitzgibbon, and told him her tale.

For a moment her reason forsook her ; she raved,
She laughed, and she cried—“They are saved, they are saved !”
Then her senses returned, and with thanks loud and deep
Sounding sweetly around her she sank into sleep.
And Bœrstler came up, but his movements were known,
His force was surrounded, his scheme was o’erthrown
By a woman’s devotion—on stone be’t engraved—
The foeman was beaten and Burlington saved.

Ah ! faithful to death were our women of yore !
Have they fled with the past to be heard of no more ?
No, no ! Though this laurelled one sleeps in the grave,
We have maidens as true, we have matrons as brave ;
And should Canada ever be forced to the test—
To spend for our country the blood of her best !
When her sons lift the linstock and brandish the sword,
Her daughters will think of brave Laura Secord !


Source: Raise the Flag and Other Patriotic Canadian Songs and Poems. Toronto: Rose Publishing, 1891

Mair originally published this poem possibly in 1888 – the following was written in Grip, July 7, 1888:

The heroic conduct of Mrs. Laura Secord in apprising the British of the contemplated attack of Bœrstler’s forces in 1812, is once again made the subject of a poem, and this time the same hand that gave in Tecumseh, Vide the Week of June 21st. A first rate piece of work by a Canadian author is something uncommon enough to evoke enthusiasm, and the bard of Price Albert rarely fails to “do us proud.” After reading his latest we unanimously shout “Give us Mair, Charles, give us Mair!”

Read about Charles Mair

 

 

Of Sometime True Lovers by Doug Smith

sometime
Horseshoe Falls in Winter. Photo by Heather Rodman
Courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library

In the yellow and blue dawn of winter
I will come for her
My misty apparition
who fogs my eyes and senses
and comforts me with her chilled
wet kiss

She knows my secret sins
She’s lived my life
“Come in,” says Niagara
“The water’s fine”
I know it’s not true, it’s freezing in December

Look up from the Horseshoe Falls
see the Rainbow Bridge, Goat Island, the gaudy signage
Home…

Look down upon the frigid rapids
My misty apparition
who fogs my eyes and senses
and I wonder how it will be
to know the caress 
of my sometime true lover
as I lapse gently inside her
and ponder my new address

Slipping into her grasp
suicide and marriage are one
no cold, no fear
just nostalgia


 

Source: The author, 2022. Of Sometime True Lovers was first published on All Poetry6/9/21, Written 10/31/98

Author’s note: While this appears to be about suicide in Niagara Falls, it’s really about what I owe to the city itself, the city that I grew up in and made me.

See Doug Smith ’s All Poetry site (Darknightofthesoul)

Doug Smith is a former Niagara Falls, NY resident