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 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.