1(12 JAMES H. PERKINS. [1830-40. 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 ; 'Tis rendered powerless by the gift Of heaven-fed charity. III. 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 wint'ry 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 Wliere he had knelt and died. Nor ever let my weak mind rail At the poor Indian, Who, when the fierce north-western 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 ! TO A CHILD. My little friend, I love to trace Those lines of laughter on thy face. Which seems to be the dwelling-place Of all that's sweet : And bend with pride to thy embrace Whene'er we meet. For though the beauty of the flower. Or of the sky at sunset hour, Or when the threat'ning tempests lower, May be divine, Yet unto me but weak their power Compared with thine.
