The Song of Tekakwitha, the Lily of the Mohawks

By Robert Emmett Holland

A narrative poem of some 3680 lines of the life of 'Venerable Kateri Tekakwitha', an Algonquin/Mohawk Native American who was baptized into Christianity. Illustrated with drawings by LeRoy H. Appleton.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barakaldo Books
• Release date: May 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839744617

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE SONG OF TEKAKWITHA

The Lily of the Mohawks

By

ROBERT E. HOLLAND

of the Society of Jesus

FORDHAM UNIVERSITY PRESS New York

Table of Contents

Contents

Table of Contents 4

DEDICATION 5

THIS BOOK CONTAINETH The Song of Tekakwitha 7

PRELUDE 8

INVITATION 12

INVOCATION 14

Tekakwitha’s Childhood 16

Tekakwitha’s Dreaming 23

Tekakwitha’s Day 31

Tekakwitha’s Blanket 41

Witnesses in Blood 42

The Fall of Tionontoguen 48

The Blackrobes 53

Tekakwitha’s Wishing 59

Tekakwitha’s Baptism 71

Tekakwitha’s Crosses 79

Tekakwitha’s Flight 90

Tekakwitha’s Indian Summer 107

Tekakwitha’s First Communion 115

Tekakwitha’s Hunting 121

Tekakwitha’s Vowing 128

Tekakwitha’s Dying 143

Tekakwitha’s Burial 166

POSTLUDE 179

BENEDICTION 183

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 189

DEDICATION

The Song of Tekakwitha

...sung for the honor of Kateri, and

dedicated in respectful tribute to the devoted

Vice Postulator of her Cause for

Beatification and Canonization

JOHN J. WYNNE

of the Society of Jesus

Illustrated by LE ROY H. APPLETON

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 Kateri’s 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 maiden’s time; of others in which she moved—all 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 Father’s Kingdom

Enter children of the forest,

Clothed in glory won by Jesus

In His own most cruel dying.

These, I’d answer; such, I’d tell you,

Were the Blackrobes missionary,

Men of God among the savage,

Wrote her story, truthful story

Of my Tekakwitha, maiden,

Child of forest, Redskin’s 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 I’d answer, so I’d tell you;

Thus I’d 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 Nature’s 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

At a stream of limpid pureness:

Sons of God, who in your travel,

Stumbling, fall; would rise, and farther

Struggle in the way of goodness:

Men and women, saints or sinners,

Simple souls or arrant scoffers,

All of you whom good example

Yet may save and make you happy,

Even in this tearful valley:

Pause ye in your rushing hurry,

Pause and list ye to this story:

How it sings a song of virtue

In