DON CUPID

Oh! little pink and white G.o.d of love, With your tender smiling mouth, And eyes as blue as the blue above, Afar in the sunny south.

No army e'er laid so many low Or wounded so many hearts, No mighty gunner e'er wrought such woe As you with your feathered darts.

HEAVEN

Not with the haloed saints would Heaven be For such as I; Who have not reached to their serenity So sweet and high.

Not with the martyrs washed by holy flame Could I find place, For they are victors who through glory came To see G.o.d's face.

Not with the perfect souls that enter there Could mine abide, For clouded eyes from eyes all cloudless fair 'Twere best to hide.

And not for me the wondrous streets of gold Or crystal sea-- I only know the brown earth, worn and old, Where sinners be.

Unless I found those who to me belong, My dear and own, I, in the vastness of that shining throng, Would be alone.

G.o.d guide us to some sun-blessed little star, We ask not where, Nor whether it be near or it be far, So Love is there.

SIR HENRY IRVING

"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"

No more for thee the music and the lights, Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown; For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams, The curtain hath rung down.

No more the sea of faces, turned to thine, Swayed by impa.s.sioned word and breathless pause; No more the triumph of thine art--no more The thunder of applause.

No more for thee the maddening, mystic bells, The haunting horror--and the falling snow; No more of Shylock's fury, and no more The Prince of Denmark's woe.

Not once again the fret of heart and soul, The loneliness and pa.s.sion of King Lear; No 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 ma.s.sacre of the Hurons at the little mission village of St. Louis upon the sh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sed 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.

And like a phantom ever at his side Pointing each hour to paths he scarce could see, By wood and waterway, went one still guide, Who drifted with the shades, when daylight died, Into the deep of night, and mystery.

But when they reached the place of many pines, G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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.

It was at daybreak that they heard the cry: "The Iroquois!--The Iroquois! They come!