more bewilderment and broken words
Of wild despair and fear.

And never wilt thou conjure from the past
The dread and bitter field of Waterloo;
Thy trembling hands will never pluck again
Its roses or its rue.

Thou art no longer player to the court;
No longer red-robed cardinal or king;
To-day thou art thyself--the Well-Beloved--
Bereft of crown and ring.

Thy feet have found the path that Shakespeare found,
Life's lonely exit of such far renown;
For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,
The curtain hath rung down.

October, 1905.

JEAN DE BREBOEUF

Jean de Breboeuf, a priest of the Jesuit Order, came to Canada
as a missionary to the Indians about the year 1625. He belonged
to an old and honourable French family that had given many sons
to the army, and was a man of great physical strength, one who
possessed an iron will, that was yet combined with sweetness
and gentleness of temper.

He lived with the Indians for many years, and spoke the dialects
of different tribes, though his mission was chiefly to the Hurons.
By them he was much beloved.

At the time of the uprising of the Iroquois in 1649, there was a
massacre of the Hurons at the little mission village of St. Louis
upon the shores of Georgian Bay. There Jean de Breboeuf, refusing
to leave his people, met death by torture at the hands of the
conquering Iroquois. Lalement, his friend, a priest of the same
order, was also martyred by these Indians upon the same day,
March 16th, 1649.

As Jean de Breboeuf told his rosary
At sundown in his cell, there came a call!--
Clear as a bell rung on a ship at sea,
Breaking the beauty of tranquillity--
Down from the heart of Heaven it seemed to fall:

"Hail, Jean de Breboeuf! Lift thee to thy feet!
Not, for thy sins, by prayer shalt thou atone;
Thou wert not made for peace so deeply sweet,
Thine be the midnight cold, the noonday heat,
The journey through the wilderness, alone.

"Too well thou lovest France--her very air
Is wine against thy lips--and all her weeds
Are in thine eyes as flowers. She is fair
In all her moods to thee--and even there,
See! thou dost dream of her above thy beads.

"Rouse thee from out thy dreams! Awake! Awake!
Thou priest who cometh of a martial line!--
Thou hast its strength, thy will no man can break:
Go forth unarmed, the law of love to take
Into a lonely land, that yet is Mine."

Then straightway fell the monk upon h