Marquette's Grave [pp. 356-358]

T-IE LADIES'
Who, when the bloody deed is done, can tell
What went before, within the secret walls
Of that man's heart-bloodthirsty at its birth To move the hidden forces of the will,
To do that deed which makes the angels weep?
Or who beside the self-same heart has stood
With the same temptings; who has seen the cause
Which did compel the bloody hand to hold
Its vengeance, and to take him home in love?
Who was the object of his bitter hate?
But I have seen sad changes, O my Lord,
Wrought here among these piteous savages!
And I have pitied them, and loved them all.
In their worst deeds, my heart has bled for them,
And on my face to earth, in prayer to God,
Have I prayed for them, knowing what they are,
And praying they might be what they are not,
'1 hine, O my Lord, thine ever, ever thine!
And yet I feel, O Lord, I might have done
Far more for thee, who did so much for me.
Alas! I fear that I have slothful been;
Impatient, angry, losing precious time,
In vain, vain words-with thy words lying by,
Which uttered, might have saved a soul alive!
Away, false heart! I will not bear thy plea.
Unprofitable! me a sinner, Lord,
Unworthy of thy love! How shall I bear
Thy just reproaches at the judgment-seat,
When thou dost ask me for my interest, Lord!
What shall I say, "The talent, it is thine?"
Is there no more? I shall not bear thine eyes
W\Vhen thou dost ask me for these red men's souls!
O Lord, be merciful to me thy son!
I've tried to do my best-lbut I am old
And weary with my years; but never loth
To do thy work-O never, never loth!
I would that I could show my garners full
Of grain, ripe grain! reaped here upon this soil;
I am not sure, O Lord, of one ripe ear!
0, strengthen me to do more work for thee!
And put away this present weakness, Lord,
Which so unmans me, shivering all my bones,
And make me very strong to do thy will,
Who am so weak just now that I could faint.
Canst thou forgive me? Ah, thou canst and wilt!
I know thou wilt; for here, on this dear book,
I carry at my heart that thy dear voice,
From its dumb pages, may remind me, Lord,
WVhen I'm remiss in any thing, that I
Thy servant am, to love thee till I die!
Thy promises are made and sealed with blood,
That thou forgivest all who come to thee!
Thus, as they rowed along the pleasant shore
Of Michigan's fair waters, mused Marquette,
The brave, old man, evangelist of Christ,
WVho, in the wilderness, for many years
Had preached, and prayed, and worked to save the
souls
Of perishing savages, and worked alone,
With no white man to cheer him, no friend's voice
To gladden his great heart; his love for Christ
Sustaining him-planting and watering
REPOSITOR.2
Thus, in hope and faith, in love and humble trust,
That God would bless his labors in the West.
We all do know his life, for it is writ
In every heart that loves a good man's name.
But now upon the margin of life's stream
He glided on as glided the poor barge
Urged by the oarsmen, who knew not his state
Of mind or body, but bent merrily
Unto their oars, and sang a pleasant song
As the flat shore and woodlands of the lake
Went drifting past them like the life of man.
And when unto the mouth of a small stream,
Which ran from the peninsula, they came,
Marquette, with all his sorrows on his soul,
And racked with pains, but cheerful as of old,
Proposed to land and celebrate the mass,
But said that they must wait here in the boat
While he awhile did step apart to pray.
And there upon the prairie grass he knelt,
Bowing, his good, gray head in prayer to God.
Alone he prayed-but he was not alone;
For round him stood angelic choirs from heaven,
And saints and angels to sustain his heart,
With all the sweet and loving words of Christ,
His precious promises and most dear love.
Then with pathetic tears he raised his eyes
Up to the dark-blue sky, and prayed for peace
And preparation for his final change,
When putting off his frail mortality,
He should his immortality put on.
And as the gentle winds blew his gray hairs
Over his pale brow and his placid cheek,
He, with clasped hands, still looking up to heaven
Was carried thither, borne on angel's wings!
And there the image of repose in death,
His face a prayed, and all his aspect love,
The anxious boatmen found him-and they wept!
For these rude men had tender, loving hearts
For him, who was their father, well beloved.
And then they dug a grave within the sand
Upon the margin of the lake, and laid
Him there to wait the resurrection trump,
While they were left alone to mourn his loss,
Which unto them was like the loss of heaven.
They called the stream whereby they buried him,
Marquette; and there, for more than fifty years,
He slept in peace. The very winds and waves
Did pay him homage, and forgot their wrath
In adoration o'er his hallowed manes;
For tho' it lay exposed, that little mound,
Unto the rising waters, they retired,
As if obedient to a higher power;
And made a breach above it in the rocks,
Through which they'flow unto the present day.
HEROES FOR THE TRUTH.
THE hights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
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