(From an old Indian legend of the maiden and her lover who went over Niagara Falls)
Lelawala, Lelawala,
The beautiful Lelawala
With the light of the moon in her hair.
Lelawala, Lelawala,
With the warmth of a fire in her voice;
And her eyes — Lelawala —
With the grace
And the gentleness of a doe.
Lelawala, Lelawala,
With the swiftness of a swallow
To help those in sorrow.
Lelawala, Lelawala,
With the wisdom of owls, Lelawala,
With a heart warm for everyone;
Lelawala, Lelawala,
To good for any man, meant for a god.
Source: Grol, Lini, ed. by Kevin McCabe and Lynne Prunskus. Lake to Lake: Lini Grol’s Niagara. St. Catharines: Blarney Stone Books, c2000.
I
NIAGARA, how charms thy name
Resounding from thy high walled sheer!
How sweet thy water's far acclaim
That bursts upon my pricking ear!
How beams my eye with kindling flame
As to thy presence I draw near,
Where beautied grandure's falling swell
Weaves still time's awful, mystic spell!
I gaze at thee from nearest shore,
Close by the impending brink,
In wonder at thy fearful pour
Of waters, til, amazèd more
Than I can tell or think,
I only see thy mist's fine shower
That wafts upon these walls,
And vision dim that mighty Power,
The Great Spirit of the Falls.
II
But lo ! up stream, in fitful dream,
The rolling, rumbling rapids roar,
And toss and tilt and turn and teem,
And gurgle in their cascades' gleam
From isle to isle and isle to shore;
And oft repeat the dazzling feat,
Display their leaping wonders more,
Rush round the rocks with flaring locks,
Lead as bellweathers do their flocks,
While through their tree-trimmed way they pour,
These bounding waters, fleet, more fleet,
To gather in one onward rush
Adown their troubled, rocky bed,
And struggle, straggle, gurgle, gush,
To follow where their leaders led;
But panting now for breath,
They stagger to the edge
Of overhanging ledge,
Fearing the plunge beneath;
When forth in foam their fellows come,
Cheering and jeering the faltering and fearing,
Till onto the precipice they rush with a roar,
Exulting and leaping, as comrades before;
Yet staring, stumbling, crashing, crumbling,
As host with host o'erpowering,
Each glistening wight of air commingled,
They fall in gulf devouring;
Or, flaring, flashing, darting, dashing,
To break as gleaming snow,
While splitting, splashing, gnawing, gnashing
Upon the rocks below;
Whence o'er the heights their spirits towering,
Sweeping, swaying, rising, lowering,
Rejoin the ceaseless flow,
That with recurring, falling shock,
Born on the wind's bluff blast,
Wears e'er amain the shelving rock,
And undermines aghast.
There as by mighty hand,
A cavern forms, carved by the storms
Of vexed spray's pelting wave;
And in that rocky cave
Rough columns stand with altar grand;
While fittingly conforms
The spray-worn dome and bowlder pave,
Round which reëcho e'er a stave
Of wailing wind's weird band;
And there before the cavern door,
Attended with intoning roar,
E'er falls the Bridal Veil
And sweeps the filmy rail,
Which now through Bridal Hall are fanned,
Now screen that Wind's Cave from the land.
Continue reading "Niagara by Arthur William Fisher"→
Thundering clouds
over the roar of a thousand nights
smashing water
spilling mist on ancient rocks.
Tremors beget the moving form
created to carry men in God’s direction
yet,
Sons of Adam, Listen!
Building the Tower of Babel
dumb in spirit
yet brilliant in designing
a god to themselves
In the midst of futile human endeavor
stands a mighty warrior,
an ancient ghost
“Onguirahra! Noss oossima!”
tall, courageous
believing in a power
greater than that
which was created
Sons of Adam, look!
On mighty rushing wings
He raises his spear
and with one fell swoop
brings down
the concrete rocks.
and the river rises up
to greet Him
moving faithfully forward
with the thundering power of the falls.
Peace is restored
and a tree planted by the river
reaches its roots out
and grows among men’s ashes.
while the warrior
rests beneath its shade.
And is refreshed
in the cool depths
of Onguirahra!
It’s Niagara lost
in the 20th century, disappeared
from the cereal box, up in mist,
a canvas backdrop in one hundred thousand
dead photographs, fading from postcards,
gone to Bermuda, Disney World, flown
to Aruba, splish took a bath at Niagara
splash went to Vegas for the weekend—
but had room at the motel
for Joseph and Marilyn
and were they impressed?
There’s no record of it.
But the first human record at Niagara
before it had name–the first human at ?
who left a flint spear point, water
falling at the whirlpool then,
at old gorge, and the spear point:
dropped in fear, in awe,
in wonder at new water,
ice falling who thought of it as !
Wandering hunter, archaeologists say, who
if he were there at all, didn’t stay long,
as if he had, for months let’s say, they’d
have known—would have found the tree
against which he relieved himself,
charcoal trace on stone, where he
cooked fish—as if no Niagara rock
has been left unturned.
The most recent evidence indicates he
did stay but a brief time—only minutes—
that dizzy from spoiled fish innards
he stumbled out of the woods
toward thunder, saw falling water, stared
slack-jawed into mists and steam rising
against south gorge wall, had visions:
The wall exploding, water rushing forth
gnawing south, divers fearful things—
dropped his spear, fled empty-handed
and throwing up back among the trees
and who wouldn’t have?
What he saw: the sun rising and setting
3 million 647 thousand 445 times, ten
thousand winters and springs, trees
leafing out, hot suns, leaves coloring,
withering, dropping, snows whirling,
grass greening, fogs gathering, rains,
trees dying, toppling, new trees as slim
as spears growing thicker than his body,
salamanders mating between his gnarled toes,
mice nibbling algae from his ankles, a wolf
marking territory on his left shin
When brave Van Rensselaer cross'd the stream,
Just at the break of day
Distressing thoughts, a restless dream,
Disturb'd me where I lay.
But all the terrors of the night
Did quickly flee away:
My opening eyes beheld the light,
And hail'd the new-born day.
Soon did the murdering cannon's roar
Put blood in all my veins;
Columbia's sons have trod the shore
Where the proud Britain reigns.
To expose their breast to cannon's ball,
Their country's rights to save,
O what a grief to see them fall!
True heroes, bold and brave!
The musket's flash, the cannon's glow,
Thunder'd and lighten'd round,
Struck dread on all the tawny foe,
And swept them to the ground.
I thought what numbers must be slain,
What weeping widows left!
And aged parents full of pain,
Of every joy bereft.
The naked savage yelling round
Our heroes where they stood,
And every weapon to be found
Was bathed in human blood.
But bold Van Rensselaer, full of wounds,
Was quickly carried back;
Brave Colonel Bloom did next command
The bloody fierce attack.
Where Brock, the proud insulter, rides
In pomp and splendor great;
Our valiant heroes he derides,
And dared the power of fate.
Continue reading "The Battle of Queenstown (October 13, 1812) by William Banker, Jr."→