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 his face
Trembling with awe throughout his mighty frame.
"I hear Thee, Lord!" he cried. "Give me Thy grace,