THIS BOOK CONTAINETH The Song of Tekakwitha
MY SONG is of the Life and Virtues, the Dying, and the Burial of Venerable Kateri Tekakwitha , an Indian maiden of the Mohawks, born in 1656, at Ossernenon; died in 1680, at Kanawake, where repose the relics of this first child born in our Country to be elected for the Honors of the Altar I sing for you
THE LILY OF THE MOHAWKS
MY SONG BEGINNETH in a Prelude , with an Invitation that for your edification ye hear me sing; and with an Invocation to The Great Spirit to bless my Song, which then hasteth to tell the history of Kateris earliest years, to her thirteenth, and of her young girlhood, while yet she was a pagan.
THEN FOLLOWETH, in a setting of my fancy, the true story of events before the maidens time; of others in which she movedall leading to the blessings by which she receiveth Baptism , and liveth for a time in peace of heart, and with solace for her soul.
BUT UNDER persecution, at length she taketh flight to the Mission, Saint Francis Xavier, at Kanawake, in Canada, far to north of the Mohawk country, and there beginneth her heroic ascent of the Mountain of Christian Saintliness, until after only twenty-four years of her earthly life, Kateri Tekakwitha cometh unto its last day and to her mortal end.
AND HERE ENDETH my Song, in a Postlude of my most reverent thoughts, and by begging The Great Spirit a Benediction upon me, the Singer, and upon you who hear me sing The Song of Tekakwitha .
PRELUDE
SHOULD ye ask me, who this maiden,
Who she was, this Tekakwitha;
In what books I found her story,
Story of her life and virtues,
Now retold in borrowed measures,
Story brimming with adventure,
Redolent as much of forests,
Quite as much of dewy meadows,
Curling smoke, and tumbling rivers,
As was his of Indian legend,
As was sung by Nawadaha
In his tales of Hiawatha
I should answer, I should tell you:
From the pens of those who knew her,
Knew her best, my Tekakwitha;
From their lips who sang her praises,
Teaching little Indian children:
From the Blackrobes missionary,
Men of God mongst Mohawk savage,
Writing down for us to read them,
Not a legend, not a gossip,
But most true and wondrous history:
Things they saw, and seeing, marveled.
If still further ye should ask me,
Urge me further: Who these Blackrobes ?
Tell us more of these historians
Worthy they of our believing?
I should answer, I should tell you:
Heroes they, their homes forsaken,
Crossed the ocean, Big-Sea-Water,
Men of culture, men of learning,
Men of saintliness surpassing,
Found and called it home forever,
Where the Redskin savage hunter
Stalked the deer, or built his hearthfire
In the longhouse of the Mohawk.
Heroes they, and some were martyrs,
Ran the gantlet, shed their lifeblood,
Glad, exultant, if by dying,
There would spring abundant harvest
From such streaming seed of Christians:
There would in their Fathers Kingdom
Enter children of the forest,
Clothed in glory won by Jesus
In His own most cruel dying.
These, Id answer; such, Id tell you,
Were the Blackrobes missionary,
Men of God among the savage,
Wrote her story, truthful story
Of my Tekakwitha, maiden,
Child of forest, Redskins daughter,
But of gentle, lowly spirit,
Whom, Among True Men, her tribesmen
Called The Fairest Flower That Bloometh ;
Maid who named in Saving Waters,
Kateri , in truth and naming,
Lived , The Lily of the Mohawks ,
Pure of heart, The Virgin Mohawk ,
Kateri the Good and Holy .
Tekakwitha? Tekakwitha :
Moving All Before Her sweetly;
Worker of the Wonders gracious;
Putting All in Order wisely;
Hers the story told by Blackrobes:
Not a legend, not a gossip,
But most true and wondrous history:
Things they saw, and seeing, marveled.
Thus Id answer, so Id tell you;
Thus Id answer to your urging.
INVITATION
YE WHO love the lore of Indian,
Love the pleasant hills and valleys
Such as loved himself, the Redskin
Blending into fertile landscape,
Watered by the lake-born rivers,
Rich with glittering snow in winter;
Love the forest trees, their sighing
In the gentle western zephyrs,
Through the warm and lazy summer;
Love the calls of Natures children,
Echoing in the filtered sunshine
Like an air of flutist wistful
Hear me sing this Indian maiden:
Hear my Song of Tekakwitha .
Ye who in this later century,
Jaded by its suit of progress,
Doubtful of its boast of promise,
Christians are, and would refresh you