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.

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