Père Lalement

I lift the Lord on high,

Under the murmuring hemlock boughs, and see

The small birds of the forest lingering by

And making melody.

These are mine acolytes and these my choir,

And this mine altar in the cool green shade,

Where the wild soft-eyed does draw nigh

Wondering, as in the byre

Of Bethlehem the oxen heard Thy cry

And saw Thee, unafraid.

My boatmen sit apart,

Wolf-eyed, wolf-sinewed, stiller than the trees.

Help me, O Lord, for very slow of heart

And hard of faith are these.

Cruel are they, yet Thy children. Foul are they,

Yet wert Thou born to save them utterly.

Then make me as I pray

Just to their hates, kind to their sorrows, wise

After their speech, and strong before their free

Indomitable eyes.

Do the French lilies reign

Over Mont Royal and Stadacona still?

Up the St. Lawrence comes the spring again,

Crowning each southward hill

And blossoming pool with beauty, while I roam

Far from the perilous folds that are my home,

There where we built St. Ignace for our needs,

Shaped the rough roof tree, turned the first sweet sod,

St. Ignace and St. Louis, little beads

On the rosary of God.

Pines shall Thy pillars be,

Fairer than those Sidonian cedars brought

By Hiram out of Tyre, and each birch-tree

Shines like a holy thought.

But come no worshippers; shall I confess,

St. Francis-like, the birds of the wilderness?

O, with Thy love my lonely head uphold.

A wandering shepherd I, who hath no sheep;

A wandering soul, who hath no scrip, nor gold,

Nor anywhere to sleep.

My hour of rest is done;

On the smooth ripple lifts the long canoe;

The hemlocks murmur sadly as the sun

Slants his dim arrows through.

Whither I go I know not, nor the way,

Dark with strange passions, vexed with heathen charms,

Holding I know not what of life or death;

Only be Thou beside me day by day,

Thy rod my guide and comfort, underneath

Thy everlasting arms.

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