SINK to my heart, bright evening skies! | |
| Ye waves that round me roll, | |
| With all your golden, crimson dyes, | |
| Sink deep into my soul! | |
| And ye, soft-footed stars,—that come | 5 |
| So silently at even, | |
| To make this world awhile your home, | |
| And bring us nearer heaven,— | |
| Speak to my spirit’s listening ear | |
| With your calm tones of beauty, | 10 |
| And to my darkened mind make clear | |
| My errors and my duty. | |
| |
| Speak to my soul of those who went | |
| Across this stormy lake, | |
| On deeds of mercy ever bent | 15 |
| For the poor Indian’s sake. | |
| They looked to all of you, and each | |
| Leant smiling from above, | |
| And taught the Jesuit how to teach | |
| The omnipotence of love. | 20 |
| You gave the apostolic tone | |
| To Marquette’s guileless soul, | |
| Whose life and labors shall be known | |
| Long as these waters roll | |
| To him the little Indian child, | 25 |
| Fearless and trustful came, | |
| Curbed for a time his temper wild, | |
| And hid his heart of flame. | |
| With gentle voice, and gentle look, | |
| Sweet evening star, like thine, | 30 |
| That heart the missionary took | |
| From off the war-god’s shrine, | |
| And laid it on the Holy Book, | |
| Before the Man Divine. | |
| The blood-stained demons saw with grief | 35 |
| Far from their magic ring, | |
| Around their now converted chief, | |
| The tribe come gathering. | |
| Marquette’s belief was their belief, | |
| And Jesus was their king. | 40 |
| Fierce passions’ late resistless drift | |
| Drives now no longer by; | |
| ’T is rendered powerless by the gift | |
| Of heaven-fed charity. | |
| |
| Speak to my heart, ye stars, and tell | 45 |
| How, on yon distant shore, | |
| The world-worn Jesuit bade farewell | |
| To those that rowed him o’er; | |
| Told them to sit and wait him there, | |
| And break their daily food, | 50 |
| While he to his accustomed prayer | |
| Retired within the wood; | |
| And how they saw the day go round, | |
| Wondering he came not yet, | |
| Then sought him anxiously, and found, | 55 |
| Not the kind, calm Marquette,— | |
| He silently had passed away,— | |
| But on the greensward there, | |
| Before the crucifix, his clay | |
| Still kneeling, as in prayer. | 60 |
| |
| Nor let me as a fable deem, | |
| Told by some artful knave, | |
| The legend, that the lonely stream, | |
| By which they dug his grave, | |
| When wintry torrents from above | 65 |
| Swept with resistless force, | |
| Knew and revered the man of love, | |
| And changed its rapid course, | |
| And left the low, sepulchral mound | |
| Uninjured by its side, | 70 |
| And spared the consecrated ground | |
| Where he had knelt and died. | |
| Nor ever let my weak mind rail | |
| At the poor Indian, | |
| Who, when the fierce northwestern gale | 75 |
| Swept o’er Lake Michigan, | |
| In the last hour of deepest dread | |
| Knew of one resource yet, | |
| And stilled the thunder overhead | |
| By calling on Marquette! | 80 |
| |
| Sink to my heart, sweet evening skies! | |
| Ye darkening waves that roll | |
| Around me,—ye departing dyes,— | |
| Sink to my inmost soul! | |
| Teach to my heart of hearts that fact, | 85 |
| Unknown, though known so well, | |
| That in each feeling, act, and thought | |
| God works by miracle. | |
| And ye, soft-footed stars, that come | |
| So quietly at even, | 90 |
| Teach me to use this world, my home, | |
| So as to make it heaven! | |
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