Music — Poetry — Fiction 



On Iris isle, a summer bower 1834 



Me twined with branch, and vine, and flower, Sigoumey 



And there he mused, on rustic seat, 



Unconscious of the noon-day heat, 



Or 'neath the crystal waters lay 



Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play. 



Yet once the whelming flood grew strong, 



And bore him like a weed along, 



Though with convulsive grasp of pain, 



And heaving breast, he strove in vain, 



Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide, 



Lone as he lived, the hermit died. 



On, by the rushing current swept, 

 The lifeless corpse its voyage kept, 

 To where, in narrow gorge comprest, 

 The whirling eddies never rest, 

 But boil with tumultuous sway. 

 The maelstrom of Niagara. 

 And there within that rocky bound, 

 In swift gyrations round and round, 



Mysterious course it held, 

 Now springing from the torrent hoarse, 

 Now battling as with maniac force, 



To mortal strife compelled. 



Right fearful 'neath the moonbeam bright, 

 It was to see that brow so white, 

 And mark the ghastly dead 

 Leap upward from his torture-bed, 



As if in passion-gust, 

 And tossing wild with agony, 

 To mock the omnipotent decree, 



Of dust to dust. 



At length, where smoother waters flow, 

 Emerging from the gulf below, 

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