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.
Rainbow at the Brink of Niagara Falls
Photo by Jason Ng on Unsplash
Mine eyes have seen the glory that lies beyond the horizon.
It is called Niagara, the pot of gold lying
At the end of the highway ribbon named for Queen Mother Elizabeth.
Oftentimes, there is a rainbow gracing the skies of Niagara
Like a tiara crowning the head of a precious daughter.
There, at Niagara, my demeanour changes —
Going from that of being wound up, taut,
To one of aaaaahhhhh…….., relaxed, a sense of well-being, one with the nature.
With closed eyes I can feel the thunderous roar permeating my being.
I experience the wet mist on my skin; the powerful surging water
Keeping a rhythm in time with my heart.
Sharp rocks, seagulls, white foaming suds,
The changing blue hues of the river become
An oasis rising from the landscape of southern Ontario, northern New York
Aboriginal people traversed the land freely
In days before geographic boundaries
When there were no borders.
It is borderless to me.
At Niagara, I am transported from one world to another world.
This new world of universality becomes my Mists of Avalon.
This universality is the essence of my being.
This is Niagara.
Niagara, your name is powerful splendour.
Niagara, you are spirit materialized.
Niagara, you are essence realized.
Niagara. You. Are.
Source: Honey Novick, 2023
Honey Novick is a singer/songwriter/voice teacher/poet. A full member of the League of
Canadian Poets, Poetry In Voice (educational branch of the Griffin Foundation), the Writer’s
Union of Canada and SOCAN. She is an original member of General Idea performance art
group. Honey performed at Carnegie Recital, Seibu Lion’s Stadium in Japan and has sung
tribute concerts for Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen (5 times, 2x at the Toronto Reference
Library with Canada’s Parliamentary Poet, George Elliott Clarke), Austin Clark, Phil Ochs,
Robbie Burns
She has 10 collections of poems including the forthcoming Bob Dylan, My Rabbi; and I’m Mad — I Matter, Making A Difference, a project of the Friendly Spike Theatre Band; Undefeated Relevance, published by Flowertopia Studio; LyricalMyrical’s Ruminations of a Fractured Diamond; Cancyp’s Monday Nights at the Butler’s Pantry; Sanguine Encounters With Greatness and others.
She has recorded 8 CDs including Rising Toward The Seraphim; Solid; New Songs for Peace (a product of the UNESCO millenium endeavours); Milton Acorn and The Free Speech Movement; Sal Mineo, My Friend;Elvis Monday Nights; Fat Albert’s Coffeehouse Artists.
Honey Novick is a four-time awardee of the Dr. Reva Gerstein Legacy Fund and the 2020 Awardee of the Mentor Award of CSARN – Canadian Senior Artists Resource Network. She is a 2019 and 2023 awardee of the Canada 150 Outstanding Neighbours for Literarti and has produced Womanvoice for 29 years.
Honey Novick is a 2020 nominee for an Acker Award – peer-based performance arts contributor
She is working on a recording of Mbrace with bill bissett.
She is artist resource with the Friendly Spike Theatre Band, teaches “Voice Yoga” at the Secret Handshake Gallery, and is part of the Inkwell Writers and High Park Poets.
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.
