He wore his Sacred Order's gown,
A long loose robe of reddish brown,
Across his shoulders, lightly flung,
The cape and cowl backward hung,
Around his waist a rope was twined,
A girdle and a scourge combined;
While from it, hanging loose and free,
Suspended hung the rosary.
He was the first of stranger race
They e'er had met with, face to face,
Though they knew that such-frocked men
Had visited their brethren.
When they saw him, brave and squaw
Viewed him with a reverend awe.
A wanderer, all alone he came,
He bore no weapons, gave no name.
He said his errand was to teach
The glories of the Life to be,
When, after death, men's spirits reach
The confines of Eternity,
And, as he spake in Indian speech,
They listened most attentively.
For he had dwelt for many a day
Mid Indian tribes, far, far away,
And thus had learnt the Indian tongue
From those whom he had dwelt among.
So, sullenly, they let him share
Their fire's warmth and frugal fare,
And then they suffered him to tell
His mission in the way he chose,
Though little cared they what befell
Their souls, so they but feasted well,
And were victorious o'er their foes.
Later on, as they were sitting
In the fire's cheerful light,
Shadows round them weirdly flitting,
As the moon rose into sight,
The stranger asked, in tones of wonder,
Whence that sound of endless thunder,
That dull, reverberating sound
That seemed to shake the very ground?
For answer, came the Chief's command,
"Be patient, you shall understand."
And, knowing Indian nature well,
He waited till they chose to tell.
Later yet, when chill and hoary
Lay the frost upon the ground,
And the moon in all her glory
Bathed in light the scene around,
The Chieftain rose, around him drew
The bison skin of tawny hue,
And signed to the priest to follow.
He led him through a dense dark wood
Where many a lofty pine tree stood,
Then through a winding hollow;
Whence, as they suddenly emerged,
The rushing rapids 'neath them surged
O'er many a rocky ledge.
Taking, down stream, their silent way
Toward the rising cloud of spray,
They reached the Cataract's edge;
And, from a jutting shelf of stone,
Saw Ni-a-gáh-ra, then unknown,
Save to the red man's Race alone.
Earth's grandest sight, conceived to be
The emblem of God's majesty.
Ne'er has the scene which 'neath them lay
Been chronicled aright,
For no one, in a fitting way,
By pen, nor pencil, can portray
The grandeur of that sight.
The Priest, as by the view amazed,
Long at the Falls and Rapids gazed,
But not a word he spoke,
Then crossed himself, as if in awe,
And 'twas a holy sight he saw.
At last he turned him to his guide,
Who stood, like statue, by his side
And thus the silence broke:
"For two years past I've often longed
This wondrous sight to see,
And memory has oft been thronged
With stories told to me
By one, upon whose brow I traced
God's holy Cross, a chief
In whose narration I have placed
An absolute belief.
The glories, which I now behold,
In words, somewhat like these, he told: