Undaunted in thy darkest hour,

Thyself hast brought the awakening dawn; Thy energy has been the power

That led, and still shall lead thee on.

Kate Harrington.

MARQUETTE.

COMPOSED ON LAKE MICHIGAN, BY THE RIVER WHERE

MARQUETTE DIED.

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
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,
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

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.

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,
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,
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
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.
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
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,

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,
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.

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
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,

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 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 !

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,
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,

Teach me to use this world, my home,

So as to make it heaven!

James Handasyd Perkins.

Minnehaha, the Falls, Minnesota.

THE FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.

HIS was Hiawatha's wooing!

THIS

Thus it was he won the daughter

Of the ancient Arrow-maker,

In the land of the Dacotahs!

From the wigwam he departed,
Leading with him Laughing Water;
Hand in hand they went together,
Through the woodland and the meadow,
Left the old man standing lonely
At the doorway of his wigwam,
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha

Calling to them from the distance,
Crying to them from afar off,
"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!"

And the ancient Arrow-maker
Turned again unto his labor,
Sat down by his sunny doorway,
Murmuring to himself, and saying:
"Thus it is our daughters leave us,
Those we love, and those who love us!
Just when they have learned to help us,
When we are old and lean upon them,
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers,
With his flute of reeds, a stranger
Wanders piping through the village,
Beckons to the fairest maiden,
And she follows where he leads her,
Leaving all things for the stranger!"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Mission Dolores, Cal.

THE ANGELUS,

HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868.

BELLS

of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse,

Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present

With colors of romance: