THE
BALLAD OF FATHER HUDSON
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You
may doubt, but I heard the story
Just as I tell it to you;
And whatever you think of the setting,
I believe the substance true.
The
great North Seaboard Province,
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From
Fundy to Chaleurs,
Is a country of many waters
And sombre hills of fir,
Where the moose still treads his snow-yard,
Breaking his paths to browse,
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Where
the caribou rove the barrens,
And the bear and the beaver house;
Where
Killooleet sings from the ridge-pole
All through the night and the rain,
When the great blue Northern Summer
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Comes
back to the wilds again.
In
that land of many rivers,
Bogan and lake and stream,
You may follow the trail in the water
With the paddle's bend and gleam,
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Where the canoe, like a shadow
Among the shadows, slips
Under the quiet alders
And over the babbling rips;
You
may go for a week together,
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Reading
footmark and trace
Of the wild shy woodland creatures,
Ere you meet a human face.
There
where the Loyalists came
And the houses of men were few,
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Little
was all their wealth
And great were the hardships they knew;
But
greater the hardy faith
They kept unflinching and fine,
And chose to be naught in the world
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For
the pride of a loyal line.
And
there came Father Hudson,
As I've heard my father tell,
To serve the wilderness missions,
With sound of a Sunday bell. |
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Sober he was and a toiler,
Cared not for ease nor place;
They speak of his humour, too,
And the long droll shaven face.
Labour
he did, and spared not,
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In
that vineyard wild and rough,
And often was sore with travel,
And often hungry enough,
Doubt
not, as he carried the word
By portage and stream and trail
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That
still in the mind of his people
The fire of truth should prevail.
And
once was a church to build,
Little, lonely, apart,
Hardly more than a token
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In
the forest 's great green heart.
With
his own hands he reared it,
And often was wet to the hide,
And often slept on the shavings
Till the birds sang outside;
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Then up in the fragrant morning,
And back to hammer and saw,
Building into the timbers
Love and devotion and awe.
So
the fair summer went by,
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And
the church was finished at last;
But Father Hudson was called
To a country still more vast.
In
the land of the creaking snowshoe
And the single track in the snow,
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There's
many a thing of wonder
No man will ever know.
It
happened about the feast
Of the blessed Nativity,
When the snow lay heavy and silent
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On
every bending tree,
When
the great north lights were stalking
Through the purple solitude,
Father Hudson's successor
Passed by the church in the wood. |
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And it came to his mind to ponder
What the requital may be
Of toil that is done in the body,
When the soul is at last set free;
And
whether the flame of fervour
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That
is quenched in service here,
Survives through self-surrender
To illumine another sphere.
Then
he saw the place all lighted,
Though it was not the hour of prayer,
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And
the strains of a triumphing organ
Came to him on the air.
In
amazement he turned aside.
Who could the player be?
And who had lighted the lights?
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The
door still fast, the key
On its nail in the little porch!
He turned, put one foot on the sill,
Unlocked, opened, and entered.
The church was dark and still!
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The white-robed spruces around it
Stood still with never a word;
The sifting snow at the window
Was all the good man heard.
Verily,
Father Hudson,
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Strong
was thy sturdy creed,
But stronger and more enduring
The humble and holy deed,
Which so could enthral the senses
And lend the spirit sight
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To
behold the glory of labour
And love's availing might.
O
brave are the single-hearted
Who deal with this life, and dare
To live by the inward vision— |
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In the
soul's native air. |
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