Then like down-dropping pearls the rounded years,
One after one, slipped off the thread of Time,
And Jean de Breboeuf laboured--oft with fears
Safe-hidden, oftener still with smiles and tears,
Among the people of this northern clime.
The forest children had become a part
Of his own life--always he spoke their tongue,
He dwelt within their tents--with all his heart
He learned their ancient woodcraft, and each art
Their race had practised when the world was young.
He gave a simple truth and faithfulness
To men of silence and of subtle ways;
He shared with them long hunger and distress--
When they had little, he himself had less,
Through all the dark and lonely winter days.
High in the vast cathedral of the trees
He hung the bell of bronze; there in God's name
He taught the law of Love; there on his knees
In the sun-dappled gloom, midst birds and bees,
He lifted up the cross, with words of name.
But evil days were come. The arrowhead
Was dipped in poison, and de Breboeuf saw
The painted faces and the swift-slain dead,--
The deep, unhealing wound--the rent of red
Made by the weapon of the Iroquois.
Closed in the village with its palisade,
Guarded by many a mighty Huron brave,
The women and the little children stayed,
Lest forest fire or sweeping midnight raid
Make all their hunting ground a common grave.
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