As the veery carols sweetly: “True! His equal ne’er’ll be found.”
Softly, softly, tread so lightly, to the border of the lake;
Bow your heads and keep the silence, as the bending branches shake.
Place him in the birch barque’s bottom, cover him with blankets fine,
Paddle gently, oh, so gently, as the wind sobs through the pine.
Yea! the wind speaks, and it whispers, as the cortége wanders past,
“Marquette! Marquette! Son of Jesus! You have reached the land of rest!
In the Kingdom of the Blessed, in the Vale of shadows dim,
Marquette! Marquette! Son of Jesus! You will rest at last with Him.”