Niagara in 1882 by John Macdonald

Suggested by a day of great quiet and beauty.

PEACEFUL is old Ontario,
‡‡Calm does Niagara flow,
Where hostile ships were sailing
‡‡Seventy years ago.

Peaceful the banks of the river
‡‡To-day compared with then,
Now clothed with the coming harvest,
‡‡Then bristling with armed men.

Silent is old Mississagua,
‡‡Niagara’s work is done,
No sound comes from its cannon
‡‡But the peaceful sunset gun.

And silent, too, are the heroes
‡‡Who sleep on either shore,
Who nobly fought for country
‡‡Here in the days of yore.

Here men still read the stories
‡‡Which the mural tablets tell.
Of brave ones who, for England,
‡‡By old Niagara fell.

But the strife is long forgotten,
‡‡And the battles long are o’er;
God grant that these great nations
‡‡May go to war no more.

God grant that these great nations
‡‡In peace may live alway,
As calm and as unruffled
‡‡As river and lake this day.

Macdonald wrote this poem at the Queen’s Royal Hotel, Niagara-on-the-Lake, June 24th, 1882

Source: The Canadian Methodist Magazine, vol XVI, June to January, 1883

This poem was not written by Sir John A. Macdonald, the first Prime Minister of Canada, who was an Anglican. This was written by John Macdonald of Toronto, who was in Parliament at the same time as John A., and was later appointed to the Senate by John A., but who was prominent in the Methodist Church for many years. Read a biography of John Macdonald

Many thanks to Arden Phair for referring this poem to the NFPP

Composer and conductor Harris Loewen set this poem to music in 2019, as Peaceful Niagara, published by Cypress Choral Music. Listen to the composition on Soundcloud. Many thanks to Prof. Loewen for permission to post this here.

The People, Yes (section 70) by Carl Sandburg

The tumblers of the rapids go white, go green,
go changing over the gray, the brown, the rocks,
The fight of the water, the stones,
the fight makes a foam laughter
before the last look over the long slide
down the spread of a sheen in the straight fall.
‡‡‡‡Then the growl, the chutter,
‡‡‡‡down under the boom and the muffle,
‡‡‡‡the hoo hoi deep,
‡‡‡‡the hoo hoi down.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡this is Niagara.

Source: Carl Sandburg. The People, Yes. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers, 1936. Section 70

Read about Carl Sandburg

Read brief mentions to Niagara in Sandburg’s poetry.

The Fugitive ‘s Song by B.S. Jones

We’re away, we’re away, and bend gladly the oar
To the heart–cheering sound of Niagara’s roar ;
For a fate worse than death would be ours should we stay ;
So to Canada’s borders we hasten away.

We come from the plains of the sunny South–west,
Where the Earth in her beautiful garment is drest ;
And where all would be fair, did not slavery’s hand
Scatter mildew, and blighting, and wo o’er the land.

Then away, then away o’er the foam–crested wave
To Britannia’s home for the fugitive slave ;
Where the Lion of England keeps ever at bay
The prowling man–hunter who seeks for his prey.

And though long have our spirits been weary and sad,
Thy anthem, Niagara, maketh us glad :
And we read in the beautiful bow on thy spray,
A promise of safety and freedom to–day.

Then away, then away, and ply cheerly the oar,
Each stroke brings us nearer to Canada’s shore.
We are there ! we are there ! our boat touches the strand,
And the bow of our vessel is high on the land.

Unship every oar, for our labor is done,
Our freedom is gained, and our manhood is won !
The toils we endured, and the dangers, are past !
We are free ! we are FREE, we are FREE then at last !

Source: Anti-Slavery Songs: A Selection From the Best Anti-Slavery Authors. Salem, Ohio: I. Trescott & Co., 1849

Read the article The Niagara River: Between Slavery and Freedom by the U.S. National Park Service

To Niagara by J.E. Robinson

To-day I stand a pilgrim on thy verge,
Old Niagara! and my willing ear
Drinks in the deep bass of thy wondrous voice—
“The voice of many waters”! On they come,
From Erie’s greener depths, and bright St. Clair,
And Huron fathomless, and far off Michigan;
And chaste Superior hoardeth not his wealth,
But sends his affluence to thy giant tide.
On, on they come, commingling as they run,
And, leaping in their joyance, in one mighty flood,
Pour their libation from thy trembling verge.

Earth’s joyous angel, Beauty, hovers round,
And plumes her wing amid thy snowy cloud;
And when yon glorious orb is slanting o’er
Thy battlements his beams, her mystic hand
Shapes from the elements a child of light;
Thy cloud of incense its baptismal font,
And cradle of her offspring newly born.

Now as I gaze, Time’s solemn centuries,
Hoar spirits of the past, call from their hollow tomb,
Nor tell us when thou wert not. When Horeb’s rock,
Touched by the feeble wand of Israel’s leader, gave
Its fountains for her lips, e’en then thy thunder tones,
Vibrating along these cliffs, shook earth and air.
When bearded time was in his infancy,
He played amid thy foam. When Memnons marble gave
It’s first weird music to the morning beam,
A kindred shaft fell on thy pillared mist,
And Iris lingered round these rocks, and smiled.

Sublimity is thee; thou art sublimity;
And the great seal of Deity is fixed
forever on thy brow! ’Tis no idolatry
To stand a mute-lipped worshipper at thy shrine,—
To feel our weakness, while our spirit kneels
Thus in the presence-chamber of the great I AM!
And listens to the anthem thou art ringing,
Ever from off thine altar to His praise.

A note to Frederick Douglass from Robinson, published before the poem:

Friend Douglass, —Being recently a November visitant at the great wonder of our western hemisphere, l ventured to pencil some thoughts upon a theme, which, although the frequent subject of the painter and the poet, will forever remain exhaustless.

As I stood upon the shelving ledge, and saw the mighty volume, sheeted with foam, making its majestic plunge into the fearful abyss, I thought it not an inapt emblem of the vast flood of light which Truth is now pouring upon the world; some rays of which, I trust, your Star is about to disseminate.

Respectfully yours,
J. E. Robinson
Rochester, November, 1847.

Source: The North Star, December 3, 1847, pg.4

This poem appeared in the first issue of The North Star, Frederick Douglass’ anti-slavery newspaper, published in Rochester, NY. Read more about The North Star

Robinson also wrote the song We’re for Freedom Through the Land, published in Anti-Slavery Songs: A Selection From the Best Anti-Slavery Authors. Salem, Ohio: J. Truscott & Co., 1849

Many thanks to Arden Phair and Dennis Gannon for tracking down this poem and referring it to the NFPP

Poem on the Death of Mr. Job Hoisington…. by Elder A. Turner

POEM ON THE Death of Mr. Job Hoisington, Who fell in the Battle at Black Rock, on the 30th Dec., 1813

By Elder A . TURNER .

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡1.

A Melancholy fate,
‡‡To you I will relate,
And give to you a short detail
‡‡Of a poor widow’s fate.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡2.

‘ Twas on the thirtieth day
‡‡Of December, the last,
Alarm was made, and cannons they
‡‡Did roar and play so fast.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡3

‘ Twas down at the Black Rock,
‡‡The battle first began;
The people they began to flock,
‡‡And to the country ran.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡4.

From Buffalo they flee,
‡‡And make a rapid flight;
Male and female we now do see,
‡‡Crying , “a horrid sight.“

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡5.

‘ Twas “escape for thy life,
‡‡No time to look behind;”
The husband, children and the wife,
‡‡No more can either find.

British and Indians all,
‡‡The massacre began;
Arrows of death, the leaden balls,
‡‡Forbid our troops to stand.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡7.

Widows and orphans were,
‡‡Made in a moment‘ s time;
Children and mothers, all despair,
‡‡Their fathers, husbands, find.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡8.

How many garments were,
‡‡Stained with purple gore ?
While blood and carnage do declare,
‡‡Thc battle it was sore .

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡9.

‡‡But honor did redound
To the brave SEELYE‘s name,
‡‡Who did command and stand his ground,
With candor and with fame .

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡10.

While others did retreat,
‡‡And balls like hail did fly;
This hero scorned to be beat,
‡‡Had rather fight or die.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡11.

But the alarming part,
‡‡Of all the tragedy;
Broke the kind mother‘s tender heart,
‡‡To hear her children cry.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡12.

My pa‘ ! they will him kill,
‡‡We ne‘er shall see him more;
O, no ! my children, all be still,
‡‡It soon will be all o‘er .

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡13.

But when the battle‘s done,
‡‡I look for the return,
Of my dear husband, HOISINGTON,
‡‡But I am left to mourn.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡14.

Whether alive he be,
‡‡Or in the battle fell;
Or yet a pris‘ner carried away,
‡‡I surely cannot tell.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡15.

Upon suspense I wait,
‡‡For ten long days or more;
I now am brought to know my fate,
‡‡My HOISINGTON‘s no more !

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡16

In death‘s cold hand he‘s found,
‡‡Wrapt up in purple gore;
His head and body scar‘d with wounds,
‡‡The tomahawk had tore .

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡17

And still for to increase,
‡‡And irritate my pain;
Three of my children in great haste,
‡‡Carried by light horsemen,

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡18

Forty or fifty miles,
‡‡Unto Batavia ‘ s coast;
Scattered they were, I knew not where,
‡‡Or whether they were lost .

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡19.

After ten days or more,
‡‡I found they were all safe;
Which seemed to heal my wound or sore,
‡‡And gave my soul relief.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡20.

And now to God with all
‡‡That I do here possess,
I give away to him, and call
‡‡For gratitude and grace.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡21.

That this bereaving stroke,
‡‡Be sanctified to me;
That my hard heart of stone be broke,
‡‡And from this world may flee.

‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡22

And rise triumphant high,
‡‡Far hence away to soar,
Above the regions of the sky,
‡‡Where wars shall be no more.

Source: Buffalo Historical Society. Publications of the Buffalo Historical Society, vol. II. Buffalo: Bigelow Brothers, 1880.

Listen to a podcast about Hoisington

Read about the Battle of Black Rock, also known as the Battle of Buffalo

Introductory note to the poem:

In volume i of these Publications, at pages 52, 53 and 199, allusion is made to Mr. Job Hoisington (there spelled less correctly, Hoysington) and a full account is given of the circumstances of his death, and the discovery of his remains. The publication of these stories of the olden time serves to link the early days with the present, and to call up in the minds of those perhaps far away from the places where the events which they narrate occurred, associations which give life to the “Dead Past.” To illustrate this, and add interest to the poem here given, it is suitable to quote a paragraph from a letter to the editor, by Lyman C. Draper, LL.D., of Madison, Wisconsin, Corresponding Secretary of the Wisconsin State Historical Society. He says: “I am delighted with your volume of publications. It does great credit to your Society, and to those who have shared in its production. My maternal grandfather, Job Hoisington, is worthily mentioned; his oldest daughter, my mother, is yet spared, at the age of eighty-five.”

But the story itself of the tragic end of Mr. Hoisington did not escape the fate of many another similar one in those earlier days; since it, like for instance, that of the crime and execution of the Three Thayers (see volume i, page 122) fell into the hands of an elegiac poet. He did upon it a (rhymed) execution, – inflicted upon it a (poetic) violence, – rivalling that suffered by the person whose decease was bewailed, or – celebrated. These primitive effusions of the Muse became household words with the people of that generation, now nearly passed away; many of whom, as for instance the late Mrs. Dr. John E. Marshall, mother of Orsamus H. Marshall, Esq ., could repeat them verbatim et literatim. It is fitting that amid the ordinary utterances of historians, in prose, the “fine phrenzy” of those poetically inclined should now and then find expression in these grave pages.

The poem is here reprinted from an ancient copy, without date, in the possession of the Society. An endorsement states that this copy was “preserved by Heman B. Potter, Esq.; and by his daughter, Mrs. George R. Babcock, presented to the Buffalo Historical Society.”

The original heading of the poem is reproduced below, as nearly as the modern resources of the printer’s art allow. An ornamental head – piece, in the original, is very appropriately composed of Death’s – heads and cross – bones, according well with the subject and the remarkable reflections of the poem itself. – Ed.

Tag: poems

Niagara in 1882 by John Macdonald

Like this:

The People, Yes (section 70) by Carl Sandburg

Like this:

The Fugitive ‘s Song by B.S. Jones

Like this:

To Niagara by J.E. Robinson

Like this:

Poem on the Death of Mr. Job Hoisington…. by Elder A. Turner

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this: