George Houghton
Niagara
I.
Formed when the oceans were fashioned, when all the world
was a workshop;
Loud roared the furnace fires, and tall leapt the smoke
from volcanoes,
Scooped were round bowls for lakes, and grooves for the
sliding of rivers,
Whilst, with a cunning hand, the mountains were linked
together.
Then through the daw-dawn, lurid with cloud, and rent
by forked lightning,
Striken by earthquake beneath, above by the rattle of
thunder,
Sudden the clamour was pierced by a voice, deep-lunged
and portentous --
Thine, O Niagara, crying: "Now is created completed!"
II.
Millions of cup-like blossoms, brimming with dew and with
rain-drops,
Mingle their tributes together to form one slow-trickling
brooklet;
Thousands of brooklets and rills, leaping down from their
home in the uplands,
Grow to a smooth, blue river, serence and flowing in
silence.
Hundreds of smooth, blue rivers, flashing afar o'er the
prairies,
Darkening 'neath forests of pine, deep drowning the reeds
in the marshes,
Cleaving with noiseless sledge the rocks red-crusted with
copper,
Circle at last to one common goal, the Mighty Sea-Water.
Lo! to the northward outlying, wide glimmers the stretch
of the Great Lake,
White-capped and sprinkled with foam, that tumbles its
bellowing breakers
Landward on beaches of sand, and in hiding-holes hollow
with thunder,
Landward where plovers frequent, with the wolf and the
westering bison.
Four such Sea-Waters as this, a chain of green
land-bounden oceans,
Pour into one their tides, ever yearning to greet
the Atlantic,
Press to one narrow sluice, and proffering their tribute
of silver,
Cry as they come: "Receive us, Niagara, Father of Waters!"
Such is the Iroquois god, the symbol of might and of
plenty,
Shrine of the untutored brave, subdued by an
unfathomed longing,
Seeking in water and wind, still seeking in star-glow
and lightning,
Something to kneel to, something to pray to,
something to worship.
Here, when the world was wreathed with the scarlet
and gold of October,
Here, from far-scattered camps, came the moccasined
tribes of the redman,
Left in their tent their bows, forgot their brawls and
dissensions,
Ringed thee with peaceful fires, and over their calumets
pondered;
Chose from their fairest virgins the fairest and purest
among them,
Hollowed a birchen canoe, and fashioned a seat for the
virgin,
Clothed her in white, and set her adrift to whirl to
thy bosom,
Saying: "Receive this our vow, Niagara, Father of Waters!"
III. The Pilgrim
Pilgrim I too once came, to tender my token of homage.
I too once stood on thy wooded banks, my heart filled
with wonder,
I too would render some gift, some tribute of song and
of harp-strings,
But 'neath the roll of thy wheels, my shepherd's flute
was o'ermastered.
Calling, thou seemest to murmer: "Come, and I will
instruct thee!"
Willing I ran, like a palmer of old, with his pike-staff
and wallet,
Willing I lingered long, to go, but to turn on the
morrow,
Coming again and again, -- yet only to doubt thee
more deeply.
Idol I found thee, unfeeling, challenging man but to
mock him,
Whispering to one that is weak of voids that are vast
and almighty,
Hinting of things heaven-high to one not winged like
an eagle,
Telling of changeless parts to a leaflet that reddens
to perish;
Ever, as nearer I fared, the mightier, less merciful
found thee,
Till, after listening long, I faltered, forlorn and
disheartened;
Wearied of ceaseless strife, and yearned for some
peaceful seclusion,
Where to the chorusing throng both ear and eye
might be shuttered;
Hated the turmoil of life, where sounds that are
sweetest are strangled,
And into discord clash those martial measures,
that struggling,
Should the din of the dismalest fight, with
quavering echoes,
Nerve the warrior anew, and fire his soul with
devotion.
Turning towards far-off fields, I fled, till, stopping
to listen,
Only dull undertones told that still thou wert calling
and calling;
Wept, and wished it mid-winter, that, muffled in
snows of December,
All the world might be smothered in silence utterly
soundless;
Wished like a Druid to hie to some mountain-top shorn
and unsheltered,
Where, in their wildest flights, the riotous winds might
be stifled,
Finding no hollow reed through which to pipe their
bravuras,
Finding no trembling twig on which to twang their
lamentings.
Then, as I crost a meadow-land, dight with mallow
and daisies,
Heard the low bumble of bees, and the delicate footsteps
of robins
That o'er the crispy leaves of the scrub-oak coverts
went hopping,
Suddenly -- who shall explain it? -- faith returned
to my bosom;
Suddenly hope revived, the fog from the fens was
uplifted,
Lost was the din of life that stormed and roared in
the roadways,
Calm were the grassy fields, a lullaby purred
though the willows.
And overhead the night was illumined with flickering
beacons.
IV.
Often, in later years, allured by thy strange fascination,
Often again have I come, with feet that would not
turn backward;
Often knelt at thy feet, and sought with a lover's
persistence,
Whether, beneath thy dolorous fugue, one promise
was whispered.
Hope there was none for me; august was the
deep diapason,
But 't was the moan of the sea, the growl of the
forest unfeeling,
Threat of the sulphurous skies that, when they
are fevered and angry,
Volley the world with flame and curse mankind
with their laughter.
V. The Upper Rapids
Still, with the wonder of boyhood, I follow the race of
thy Rapids,
Sirens that dance, and allure to destruction -- now
lurking in shadows,
Skirting the level stillness of pools and the
treacherous shallows,
Smiling and dimple-mouthed, coquetting, -- now
modest, now forward;
Tenderly chanting, and such the thrall of the
weird incantation,
Thirst it awakes in each listener's soul, a
feverish longing,
Thoughts all-absorbent, a torment that stings and
ever increases,
Burning ambition to push bare-breast to thy
perilous bosom.
Thus, in some midnight obscure, bent down by the
storm of temptation
(So hath the wind, in the beechen wood, confided
the story),
Pine-trees, thrusting their way and trampling down
one another,
Curious, lean and listen, replying in sobs and in
whispers;
Till of the secret possessed, which brings sure blight
to the hearer
(So hath the wind, in the beechen wood, confided
the story),
Faltering, they stagger brinkward -- clutch at the
roots of the grasses,
Cry -- a pitiful cry of remorse -- and plunge down
in the darkness.
Art thou, all-merciless then -- a fiend, ever fierce
for new victims?
Was then the red-man right (as yet it liveth in
legend),
That, ere each twelvemonth circles, still to thy
shrine is allotted
Blood of one human heart, as sacrifice due and
demanded?
Butterflies have I followed, that, leaving the
red-top and clover,
Thinking the wind-harp thy voice, thy froth the
fresh whiteness of daisies,
Ventured too close, grew giddy, and catching
cold drops on their pinions,
Balanced -- but vainly -- and, falling, their
scarlet was blotted forever.
VI. The Cataract
Still to thy Fall I come near, as unto earth's
grandest cathedral,
Forehead uncovered, hands down, with feet
that falter beneath me;
Hearing afar, o'er the rustling grass and the
rush of the river,
Chorus triumphant, thy trumpet voice, and
I tremble with weakness.
Tall above tower and tree looms thy steeple
builded of sunshine,
Mystical steeple, white like a cloud, upyearning
toward Heaven,
Till into cloud-land it drifts, uprolling in
hill-tops and headlands,
Catches the glory of sunset, then pales into
rose-tint and purple.
Slowly through gothic aisles, I creep to the
steps of thine altar,
Halfway forgetting thy presence, though still
with each step I draw nearer,
Halfway forgetting thy voice, so far it sends
fancy awandering,
Till, with a sudden ascent, full-face thou
standest before me.
Who, upon tiptoes straining, shall snare the
fleet course of the comet!
Who, in bright pigments, shall match the
luminous sun-god at mid-day!
Who shall dare picture in words the turbulent
wrath of the tempest!
Seeing, I can but stand still, with finger on
lip, and keep silent.
VII.
Lo! drifting toward us approaches a curious
tangle of something!
White and untillered it floats, bewitching the
sight, and appearing
Like to a birchen canoe, a virgin crouched pallid
within it,
Hastening with martyr zeal to solve the
unriddled hereafter!
Slower and smoother her flight, until on the
precipice pausing,
Just for the space of a breath the dread of the
change seems to thrill her;
Crossing herself, and seeming to shudder,
She lifts her eyes to Heaven --
Sudden a mist upwhirls - I see not - but
know all is over.
Stoop and explore the void where this vision
of fancy hath vanished!
Torrents of green and blue drench down the
dizzy escarpment,
Fall into shattered flakes, and merge into fury
of snow-squalls;
Crisp, like glaciers, they shatter, then smoke in
the whirl of the vortex.
Stoop and look down! and read, if you can, the
terrible riddle!
Nay, the secret of death by death's eyes alone
can be fathomed;
But o'er the mystery finished is fluttered the
curtain Most Holy,
And on this curtain is set the sign of redemption --
a rainbow.
Symbol of hope is this, or merely man's hopeful
invention?
Thou hast no answer to that, beyond this dull
undertone moaning:
"Man, of all animate things the noblest, most
meanly ignoble,
Smiling only to tempt, and spoiling what-e'er
he embraces!"
Is then thy bow we clasp'd as pledge of a promise
unfailing,
Naught but a sun-dog ferocious, that, mouthing
the mariner's noonday,
Kisses with lying lips the soft-sleeping clouds of
midsummer,
Only to taunt him, lulled by the calm, with an
ambushed tornado?
Faith in thee have I none! I lift spent eyes, and,
despairing,
Set my teeth in defiance. Fate, then, the father
of all things!
I but a victim moth, to be snatched by a merciless
current,
Dragged by cold eddies down, to be lost and
forever forgotten!
Why this pilgrimage here? God knows no
willful self-seeking
Lent us this restless life; and no faint heart
or rebellion
Gives us this fear to lie down, and rest in the
slumberous dreamland! --
Answer, if answer thou hast! Answer, Niagara!
answer!
Weary with waiting, we climb to the hill-tops
nearest to Heaven,
Find only floating fogs, and air too meagre to
nourish;
Seeking the depths of the sea, we drop our
plummets and feel them,
Draw them in empty, or yellowed with clay,
that melts and tells nothing;
Forests we thread, wide prairies unfenced, and
drenchèd morasses,
Strike, with the fervour of youth, to the heart
of the tenantless deserts;
Turn every boulder, still hoping to find beneath
them some prophet --
Find only thistles unsunn'd, green sloth, and
passionless creatures.
Youth flitted by us, we faint, then sink in the
ruts of our fathers;
Shift as we may with the old beliefs, and beat on
our bosoms;
Seek less and hunger less keenly, still sorrow for
self and for others,
Striving, by travail and tears, life's deeper meaning
to strangle;
Drag from sunset to sunset, too fainting to fear for
the morrow,
Suffer, complain of our loads, but catch at their
withes as they leave us,
Letting the song-birds escape, perceiving not till
they've fluttered --
Bitterly weeping then, as we watch them die in
the distance.
Struggling, we snatch at straws, call out, expecting
no answer;
Pray, but without any faith; grow laggard and
laugh at our anguish;
Sin, and with wine-cup deadened, scoff at the
dread of hereafter --
And, because all seems lost, besiege Death's
doorway with gladness.
Better we had not been, for what is the goal
of such striving?
Bubbles that glitter perchance, to burst in thin
air as they glitter!
Comets that cleave the night, to leave the night
but the darker!
Smudge that bursts into flame, but only in smoke
to be smothered!
Out of the gifts of our spring, that only is
beautiful, counted
With which the day-dawn breaks bud, and dies
ere the dewdrops have left it;
Smiles there no healthfuller clime, where forms
that are fair never perish,
But, in a life-giving ether, grow fairer with
ripening seasons?
Iroquois God, I adore thee, because thou art
lasting and mighty,
Turn and gaze at thee, going, as on an all-
marvelous vision,
Dread thee, thou art so serene - but hate thee
with hatred most bitter,
Taunter of all who dabble thy foam, and think
to discover.
VIII. The Gorge
'Neath the abyss lies the valley, a valley of
darkness - a hades,
Where the spent stream, as it strives, seeks only
an end to its anguish;
Who shall its fastnesses fathom, or tell what
wrecks they envelop?
Here, 'neath the tides of time, life's remnants
await resurrection.
Deep is the way, and weary the way, while
lofty above it
Frowns upon either hand, a cliff sheer-shouldered
or beetling,
Holding in durance forever the course of the
will-broken exile,
Blighting all hope of return, should it pant for
the flowering pastures.
But from the brinks lean down a few slender
birches and cedars,
Dazed by the depth and the gloom of the channel
resounding beneath them;
Here campanulas, too, which lurk wherever is
danger,
Stoop with a smile of hope, reflecting the blue of
the heavens.
Fleeter still flies the flood, up-heaving its scum at
the centre,
Dragging the tides from the shores to leave them a
hand-breadth the lower;
While, like a serpent of yellow, the spume crooks
down to the Whirlpool,
Trails with a zigzagging motion down to the hideous
Whirlpool.
IX. The Whirlpool
Here is the end of all things, of all things
another beginning,
Here the long valley crooks, and the flight of
the river is broken;
Round is the cavernous pool, and in at one side
leaps the river,
Headlong it plunges, despairing, and beats on
the bars of its prison;
Beats, and runs wildly from wall to wall, then
strives to recover,
Beats on another still, and around the circle
is carried,
Jostled from shoulder to shoulder, till losing its
galloping motion,
Dizzily round it swirls, and is dragged toward the
hideous Whirlpool.
Lofty the rock-walls loom, the narrow outlet
concealing,
Loftier still stoop pines, that shut out the pity
of sunlight;
Whilst above both a shadow, as if from the wings
of a vulture,
Sheds over all below a pall more spectral than
midnight.
Up from the seething witch-pot arises a sulphurous
vapour,
Smoke-clouds slow-winged drift hither and hence,
revealing, now hiding:
Whilst from the hollow depths, that hiss from some
under-world fervour,
Bubble, in torrents black, the refuse of wreck and
corruption.
Round sweeps the horrible maelstrom, and into
the whirl of its vortex
Circle a broken boat, an oar-blade, things without
number;
Striving, they shove one another, and seem to hurry,
impatient
To measure the shadowy will-be, and seek from their
torment a respite.
Logs that have leapt the Falls and swum unseen
'neath the current,
Here are restored again, and weird is their
resurrection;
Here like straws they are snapt, and grinding like
millstones together,
Chafing and splintering their mates, they wade in
their deepening ruins;
Till, without hope, on tiptoe they rise, lips shriveled
and speechless,
Seeing sure fate before them that tightens its toils
to ensnare them;
Hollow the hell-hole gapes, and ravenously it receives
them --
All that is left is a sigh, and the echoes of that are
soon strangled.
X. Conclusion
This, then, can this be the end? and death but a
blotting forever?
Turning, a bird was beside me, and striking a
delicate measure,
Clearly it whistled -- a herald-like strain, that
challenged a hearer,
Sung -- 't was a broken song -- and stopping, far
distant, it fluttered.
"Seek within!" was the message, "without is
only reflection;
Sinless are nature's forms, and therefore
utterly soulless;
Sin may debase thee, make thee the servant of
Fate and of Nature --
But to thy height arise, and thou art of all
things creator.
"That alone is august which is gazed upon by
the noble,
That alone is gladsome which eyes full of
gladness discover;
Night-time is but a name for the darkness man
nurtures within him,
Storm but a symbol of sin in a soul that is
stained and unshriven.
"Act but thine own true part, as He who created
hath purposed,
Then are the waters thine, the winds, all forces
of nature;
Thine too the seasons, their fruits, which they
redden but to surrender,
Thine too the years, and thine all time --
everlasting and fearless."
Source: Myron T. Pritchard, comp. Poetry of Niagara.
Boston: Lothrop Publishing Co., 1901.
