"
Then straightway fell the monk upon his face
Trembling with awe throughout his mighty frame.
"I hear Thee, Lord!" he cried. "Give me Thy grace,
That I may follow thee to any place,
And speak to any people--in Thy name."
The vine-leaf shadows darkened in the cell--
And barefoot friars passed the close-shut door;
At vespers rang the monastery bell,
Yet still he lay, unheeding, where he fell,
Cross of black outstretched upon the floor.
* * * * *
Northward into the silence, night and day,
Through the unknown, with faith that did not fail,
Into the lands beneath the redman's sway,
The priest called Jean de Breboeuf took his way,
Led by the Polestar and the far-blazed trail.
He bore the sacred wine cups, and a bell
Of beaten bronze, whose tongue should warn or bless;
As had been done in France, so he as well
Would ring a marriage chime or funeral knell
For his lone flock, out in the wilderness.
And like a phantom ever at his side
Pointing each hour to paths he scarce could see,
By wood and waterway, went one still guide,
Who drifted with the shades, when daylight died,
Into the deep of night, and mystery.
But when they reached the place of many pines,
God's country, that no white man yet had named--
They beached their birch canoe 'neath swinging vines,
For here, the Indian read by many signs,
Lay the wild land the tribe of Huron claimed.
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