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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Evangeline, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Evangeline
+       A Tale of Acadie
+
+Author: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+Posting Date: October 26, 2008 [EBook #2039]
+Release Date: January, 2000
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVANGELINE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Stewart A. Levin.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  Evangeline.
+
+  A Tale of Acadie.
+
+
+  by
+
+  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
+
+
+
+
+    THIS is the forest primeval.  The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
+  Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
+  Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
+  Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
+  Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
+  Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+    This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
+  Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
+  Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
+  Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
+  Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
+  Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
+  Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
+  Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
+  Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
+
+    Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
+  Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
+  List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
+  List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
+
+
+
+
+
+  PART THE FIRST.
+
+
+
+
+  I
+
+
+    IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
+  Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
+  Lay in the fruitful valley.  Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
+  Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
+  Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
+  Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
+  Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
+  West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
+  Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
+  Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
+  Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
+  Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
+  There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
+  Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,
+  Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
+  Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
+  Over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way.
+  There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
+  Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
+  Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
+  Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
+  Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
+  Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.
+  Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
+  Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
+  Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
+  Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
+  Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
+  Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed.  Anon from the belfry
+  Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
+  Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
+  Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
+  Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
+  Dwelt in the love of God and of man.  Alike were they free from
+  Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
+  Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
+  But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
+  There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
+
+    Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
+  Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,
+  Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
+  Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
+  Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
+  Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
+  White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.
+  Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
+  Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
+  Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
+  Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
+  When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
+  Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
+  Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
+  Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
+  Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
+  Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
+  Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
+  Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
+  Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
+  But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
+  Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+  Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+  When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+    Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
+  Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
+  Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
+  Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
+  Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
+  Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
+  Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
+  Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
+  Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
+  Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
+  Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,
+  There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;
+  There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
+  Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
+  Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
+  Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village.  In each one
+  Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
+  Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
+  There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
+  Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
+  Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
+
+    Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré
+  Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.
+  Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,
+  Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion;
+  Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!
+  Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,
+  And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,
+  Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;
+  Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
+  Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered
+  Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.
+  But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;
+  Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,
+  Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;
+  For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
+  Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
+  Basil was Benedict's friend.  Their children from earliest childhood
+  Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,
+  Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
+  Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.
+  But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,
+  Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
+  There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him
+  Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,
+  Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel
+  Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
+  Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness
+  Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,
+  Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,
+  And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
+  Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
+  Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
+  Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
+  Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
+  Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
+  Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;
+  Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!
+  Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.
+  He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,
+  Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened through into action.
+  She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
+  "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine
+  Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;
+  She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,
+  Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.
+
+
+
+  II.
+
+
+    NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
+  And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
+  Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
+  Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
+  Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
+  Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
+  All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
+  Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
+  Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
+  Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
+  Such was the advent of autumn.  Then followed that beautiful season,
+  Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
+  Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
+  Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
+  Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
+  Was for a moment consoled.  All sounds were in harmony blended.
+  Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
+  Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
+  All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
+  Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
+  While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
+  Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
+  Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
+
+    Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
+  Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
+  Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
+  Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
+  And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
+  Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
+  Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,
+  Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
+  Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
+  Where was their favorite pasture.  Behind them followed the watch-dog,
+  Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
+  Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
+  Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
+  Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
+  When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.
+  Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
+  Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
+  Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
+  While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
+  Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
+  Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
+  Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
+  Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
+  Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
+  Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
+  Echoed back by the barns.  Anon they sank into stillness;
+  Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
+  Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
+
+    In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
+  Sat in his elbow-chair; and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
+  Struggled together like foe in a burning city.  Behind him,
+  Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
+  Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
+  Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
+  Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser
+  Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
+  Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
+  Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
+  Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
+  Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
+  Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.
+  Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
+  While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
+  Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together.
+  As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
+  Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
+  So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
+
+    Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
+  Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
+  Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
+  And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
+  "Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,
+  "Welcome, Basil, my friend!  Come, take thy place on the settle
+  Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
+  Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
+  Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling
+  Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams
+  Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
+  Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
+  Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--
+  "Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
+  Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
+  Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
+  Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."
+  Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
+  And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--
+  "Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
+  Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us,
+  What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded
+  On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
+  Will be proclaimed as law in the land.  Alas! in the mean time
+  Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
+  Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose
+  Brings these ships to our shores.  Perhaps the harvests in England
+  By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
+  And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."
+  "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,
+  Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--
+  "Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal.
+  Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
+  Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.
+  Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
+  Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."
+  Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--
+  "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
+  Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
+  Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
+  Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow
+  Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.
+  Built are the house and the barn.  The merry lads of the village
+  Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,
+  Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
+  René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
+  Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
+  As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,
+  Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,
+  And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
+
+
+
+  III.
+
+
+    BENT like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
+  Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
+  Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
+  Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
+  Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
+  Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
+  Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
+  Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
+  Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
+  Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
+  Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
+  He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
+  For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
+  And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
+  And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
+  Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
+  And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
+  And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
+  And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,
+  With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
+  Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
+  Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
+  "Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,
+  And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."
+  Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public:--
+  "Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
+  And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
+  Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
+  Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"
+  "God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;
+  "Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?
+  Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"
+  But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public:--
+  "Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
+  Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
+  When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
+  This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
+  When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
+  "Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
+  Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
+  Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
+  And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
+  Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
+  Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
+  Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
+  But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
+  Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty
+  Ruled with an iron rod.  Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
+  That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
+  Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
+  She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
+  Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
+  As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
+  Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
+  Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
+  Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
+  And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
+  Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
+  Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
+  Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
+  All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
+  Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
+
+    Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
+  Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
+  Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pré;
+  While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
+  Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
+  Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
+  Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
+  And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
+  Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
+  Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
+  And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
+  Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
+  Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
+  While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
+  Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
+  Soon was the game begun.  In friendly contention the old men
+  Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,
+  Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.
+  Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
+  Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
+  Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.
+  Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
+  Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
+
+    Thus passed the evening away.  Anon the bell from the belfry
+  Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
+  Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
+  Many a farewell word and sweet good night on the door-step
+  Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
+  Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone;
+  And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
+  Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.
+  Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
+  Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
+  Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
+  Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
+  Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
+  Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
+  This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
+  Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.
+  Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
+  Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden
+  Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
+  Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
+  Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
+  Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
+  Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.
+  Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
+  Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
+  Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
+  And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
+  Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
+  As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!
+
+
+
+  IV.
+
+
+    PLEASANTLY rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré.
+  Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
+  Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.
+  Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
+  Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
+  Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
+  Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
+  Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
+  Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
+  Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
+  Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.
+  Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
+  Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors
+  Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together,
+  Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
+  For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
+  All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.
+  Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:
+  For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
+  Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness
+  Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
+
+    Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
+  Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
+  There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;
+  There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
+  Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,
+  Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.
+  Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white
+  Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler
+  Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.
+  Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,
+  Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,
+  And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.
+  Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
+  Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
+  Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.
+  Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
+  Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!
+
+    So passed the morning away.  And lo! with a summons sonorous
+  Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
+  Thronged erelong was the church with men.  Without, in the churchyard,
+  Waited the women.  They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
+  Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
+  Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them
+  Entered the sacred portal.  With loud and dissonant clangor
+  Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--
+  Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
+  Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
+  Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,
+  Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
+  "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.
+  Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,
+  Let your own hearts reply!  To my natural make and my temper
+  Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
+  Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
+  Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds
+  Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province
+  Be transported to other lands.  God grant you may dwell there
+  Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
+  Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
+  As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,
+  Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
+  Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,
+  Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,
+  Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
+  So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.
+  Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose
+  Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
+  And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.
+  Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations
+  Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others
+  Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,
+  As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
+  Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--
+  "Down with the tyrants of England!  we never have sworn them allegiance!
+  Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"
+  More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier
+  Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
+
+    In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
+  Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
+  Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
+  Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
+  All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;
+  Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful
+  Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
+  "What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?
+  Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,
+  Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
+  Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
+  Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?
+  This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it
+  Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?
+  Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!
+  See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!
+  Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'
+  Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,
+  Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"
+  Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
+  Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
+  And they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
+
+    Then came the evening service.  The tapers gleamed from the altar.
+  Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
+  Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria
+  Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,
+  Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.
+
+    Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides
+  Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
+  Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand
+  Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,
+  Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each
+  Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.
+  Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;
+  There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;
+  There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy,
+  And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.
+  Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
+  Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.
+  Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
+  And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--
+  Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!
+  Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,
+  Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women,
+  As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,
+  Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.
+  Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
+  Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
+  Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
+
+    Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.
+  All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
+  Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,
+  "Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer
+  Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.
+  Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.
+  Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted,
+  Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.
+  Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
+  In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall
+  Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.
+  Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder
+  Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!
+  Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;
+  Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
+
+
+
+  V.
+
+
+    FOUR times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
+  Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
+  Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
+  Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
+  Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
+  Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
+  Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
+  Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
+  While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
+
+    Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
+  Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
+  All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;
+  All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
+  Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
+  Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
+  Thither the women and children thronged.  On a sudden the church-doors
+  Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
+  Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
+  Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
+  Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
+  So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
+  Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
+  Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
+  Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
+  "Sacred heart of the Saviour!  O inexhaustible fountain!
+  Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
+  Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside
+  Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
+  Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
+
+    Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
+  Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
+  Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
+  And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
+  Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
+  Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder and whispered,--
+  "Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another,
+  Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"
+  Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
+  Saw she slowly advancing.  Alas! how changed was his aspect!
+  Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep
+  Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.
+  But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,
+  Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
+  Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
+
+    There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
+  Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
+  Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children
+  Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
+  So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
+  While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
+  Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
+  Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
+  Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
+  Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
+  Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
+  Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
+  All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
+  Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
+  Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
+  Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
+  Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
+  Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
+  Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
+  Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
+  Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.
+  Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
+  Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
+
+    But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
+  Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
+  Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
+  Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.
+  Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
+  Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
+  Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
+  Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
+  And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
+  Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
+  E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
+  Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
+  Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
+  But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.
+  "Benedicite!" murmured the priest; in tones of compassion.
+  More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
+  Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
+  Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
+  Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
+  Raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them
+  Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
+  Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
+
+    Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
+  Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
+  Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,
+  Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
+  Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
+  Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
+  Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
+  Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.
+  Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
+  Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
+  Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
+
+    These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
+  Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
+  "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"
+  Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
+  Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
+  Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
+  Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
+  Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
+  When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
+  Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
+  Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
+  Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
+
+    Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden
+  Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
+  And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
+  Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore
+  Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
+  Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
+  Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
+  Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
+  Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;
+  And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
+  Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,
+  Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
+  Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
+  Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
+  And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.
+  Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--
+  "Let us bury him here by the sea.  When a happier season
+  Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
+  Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
+  Such were the words of the priest.  And there in haste by the seaside,
+  Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
+  But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré.
+  And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
+  Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
+  Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
+  'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
+  With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
+  Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
+  And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
+  Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
+
+
+
+
+
+  PART THE SECOND.
+
+
+
+
+  I.
+
+
+    MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré,
+  When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
+  Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,
+  Exile without an end, and without an example in story.
+  Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;
+  Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast
+  Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.
+  Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,
+  From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,--
+  From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters
+  Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,
+  Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.
+  Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,
+  Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.
+  Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.
+  Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
+  Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.
+  Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,
+  Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway
+  Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,
+  Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
+  As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by
+  Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
+  Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;
+  As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
+  Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
+  Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
+  Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,
+  Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
+  She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;
+  Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,
+  Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
+  He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.
+  Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
+  Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.
+  Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,
+  But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.
+  "Gabriel Lajeunesse!" they said; "O yes! we have seen him.
+  He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;
+  Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers,"
+  "Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "O yes! we have seen him.
+  He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana."
+  Then would they say: "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?
+  Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
+  Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?
+  Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee
+  Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!
+  Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."
+  Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot!
+  Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.
+  For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,
+  Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness."
+  Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,
+  Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!
+  Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;
+  If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
+  Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;
+  That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
+  Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!
+  Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
+  Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
+  Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!"
+  Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited.
+  Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
+  But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not!"
+  Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,
+  Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.
+  Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;--
+  Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;
+  But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley:
+  Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
+  Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;
+  Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,
+  Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;
+  Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.
+
+
+
+  II.
+
+
+    IT was the month of May.  Far down the Beautiful River,
+  Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,
+  Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,
+  Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.
+  It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked
+  Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,
+  Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;
+  Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,
+  Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers
+  On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.
+  With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.
+  Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness somber with forests,
+  Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;
+  Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.
+  Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike
+  Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,
+  Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars
+  Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,
+  Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.
+  Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,
+  Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,
+  Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.
+  They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,
+  Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,
+  Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.
+  They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,
+  Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,
+  Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.
+  Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress
+  Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air
+  Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
+  Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
+  Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,
+  Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.
+  Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,
+  Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,
+  Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.
+  Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;
+  And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--
+  Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.
+  As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,
+  Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,
+  So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,
+  Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.
+  But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly
+  Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.
+  It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.
+  Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,
+  And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.
+
+    Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,
+  And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure
+  Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.
+  Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,
+  Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest.
+  Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.
+  Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,
+  Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;
+  But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;
+  And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
+  Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,
+  Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,
+  Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,
+  And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,
+  Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,
+  Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.
+
+    Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them
+  Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.
+  Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations
+  Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus
+  Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.
+  Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,
+  And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,
+  Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,
+  Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.
+  Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.
+  Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,
+  Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,
+  Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.
+  Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.
+  Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine
+  Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,
+  On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,
+  Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.
+  Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.
+  Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven
+  Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.
+
+    Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,
+  Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
+  Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.
+  Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.
+  At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and care-worn.
+  Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness
+  Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.
+  Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,
+  Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.
+  Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,
+  But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,
+  So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows,
+  And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers,
+  Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.
+  Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.
+  After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,
+  As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden
+  Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician!
+  Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.
+  Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?
+  Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"
+  Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy!
+  Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."
+  But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--
+  "Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning.
+  Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
+  Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
+  Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
+  Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,
+  On the banks of the Têche are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.
+  There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,
+  There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.
+  Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;
+  Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens
+  Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.
+  They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana."
+
+    With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.
+  Softly the evening came.  The sun from the western horizon
+  Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
+  Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
+  Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
+  Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,
+  Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.
+  Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.
+  Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling
+  Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.
+  Then from a neighboring thicket the mockingbird, wildest of singers,
+  Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
+  Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
+  That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
+  Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness
+  Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
+  Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
+  Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
+  As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree tops
+  Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.
+  With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,
+  Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,
+  And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,
+  Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--
+  Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.
+
+
+
+  III.
+
+
+    NEAR to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches
+  Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
+  Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,
+  Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman.  A garden
+  Girdled it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
+  Filling the air with fragrance.  The house itself was of timbers
+  Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.
+  Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,
+  Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,
+  Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.
+  At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,
+  Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,
+  Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.
+  Silence reigned o'er the place.  The line of shadow and sunshine
+  Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,
+  And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding
+  Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.
+  In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway
+  Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,
+  Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.
+  Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas
+  Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,
+  Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines.
+
+    Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,
+  Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,
+  Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.
+  Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero
+  Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.
+  Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing
+  Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness
+  That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.
+  Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding
+  Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded
+  Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.
+  Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle
+  Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.
+  Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,
+  And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.
+  Then as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden
+  Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.
+  Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward
+  Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;
+  When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.
+  Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.
+  There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer
+  Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,
+  Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.
+  Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings
+  Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,
+  Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya,
+  How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?"
+  Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.
+  Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,
+  "Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,
+  All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.
+  Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--
+  "Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.
+  Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.
+  Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit
+  Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.
+  Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,
+  Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,
+  He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,
+  Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him
+  Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.
+  Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,
+  Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
+  Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;
+  He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.
+  Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning
+  We will follow him fast and bring him back to his prison."
+
+    Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,
+  Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.
+  Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,
+  Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.
+  Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
+  "Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"
+  As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway
+  Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man
+  Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,
+  Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
+  Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.
+  Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,
+  All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;
+  Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,
+  And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;
+  Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.
+  Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda,
+  Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
+  Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.
+
+    Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.
+  All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,
+  Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,
+  Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.
+  Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman
+  Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.
+  Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,
+  Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--
+  "Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,
+  Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!
+  Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;
+  Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.
+  Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.
+  All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows
+  More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.
+  Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;
+  Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber
+  With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.
+  After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,
+  No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,
+  Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle."
+  Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,
+  While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,
+  So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,
+  Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff halfway to his nostrils.
+  But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:
+  "Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!
+  For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,
+  Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!"
+  Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching
+  Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.
+  It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
+  Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman.
+  Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:
+  Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,
+  Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,
+  Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
+  But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding
+  From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,
+  Broke up all further speech.  Away, like children delighted,
+  All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening
+  Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,
+  Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.
+
+    Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman
+  Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;
+  While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
+  Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
+  Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness
+  Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.
+  Beautiful was the night.  Behind the black wall of the forest,
+  Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.  On the river
+  Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,
+  Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.
+  Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden
+  Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions
+  Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.
+  Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,
+  Hung the heart of the maiden.  The calm and the magical moonlight
+  Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
+  As, through the garden gate, beneath the shade of the oak-trees,
+  Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
+  Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and the fire-flies
+  Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
+  Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
+  Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,
+  Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,
+  As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."
+  And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,
+  Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel!  O my beloved!
+  Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?
+  Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?
+  Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
+  Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!
+  Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
+  Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!
+  When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"
+  Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded
+  Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,
+  Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
+  "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;
+  And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"
+
+    Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden
+  Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses
+  With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.
+  "Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;
+  "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,
+  And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming."
+  "Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended
+  Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.
+  Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,
+  Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,
+  Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.
+  Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,
+  Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,
+  Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain
+  Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;
+  Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,
+  Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord,
+  That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,
+  Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.
+
+
+
+  IV.
+
+
+    FAR in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains
+  Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.
+  Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,
+  Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon,
+  Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.
+  Eastward, with devious course, among the Windriver Mountains,
+  Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;
+  And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,
+  Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,
+  Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,
+  Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.
+  Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,
+  Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
+  Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
+  Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;
+  Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;
+  Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;
+  Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,
+  Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails
+  Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,
+  Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
+  By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
+  Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;
+  Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;
+  And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
+  Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside,
+  And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
+  Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.
+
+    Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,
+  Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
+  Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
+  Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.
+  Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire
+  Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,
+  When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.
+  And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,
+  Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana
+  Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.
+
+    Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered
+  Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
+  Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
+  She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
+  From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,
+  Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.
+  Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome
+  Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
+  On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
+  But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
+  Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
+  Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light
+  Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,
+  Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated
+  Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
+  All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
+  Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
+  Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
+  Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,
+  Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,
+  She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
+  Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
+  Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror
+  Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;
+  Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
+  But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
+  Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
+  Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.
+  Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,
+  Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,
+  That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
+  Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
+  Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
+  And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people.
+  Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened
+  To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her
+  Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.
+  Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
+  Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor
+  Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.
+  With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches
+  Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
+  Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,
+  Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
+  As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
+  It was no earthly fear.  A breath from the region of spirits
+  Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment
+  That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
+  With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.
+
+    Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee
+  Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western slope of these mountains
+  Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.
+  Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;
+  Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."
+  Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,
+  "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"
+  Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,
+  Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
+  And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,
+  Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.
+  Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
+  Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children.  A crucifix fastened
+  High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines,
+  Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
+  This was their rural chapel.  Aloft, through the intricate arches
+  Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
+  Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
+  Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,
+  Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.
+  But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
+  Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
+  Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers and bade them
+  Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,
+  Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,
+  And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.
+  There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear
+  Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.
+  Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:--
+  "Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated
+  On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,
+  Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!"
+  Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;
+  But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes
+  Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
+  "Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn,
+  When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."
+  Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
+  "Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
+  So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,
+  Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
+  Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.
+
+    Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,--
+  Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing
+  Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,
+  Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
+  Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
+  Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens
+  Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
+  But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield.
+  Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.
+  "Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!
+  Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
+  See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;
+  This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended
+  Here on its fragile stock, to direct the traveller's journey
+  Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
+  Such in the soul of man is faith.  The blossoms of passion,
+  Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
+  But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
+  Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
+  Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe."
+
+    So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,--yet Gabriel came not;
+  Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
+  Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
+  But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
+  Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
+  Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
+  Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river.
+  And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
+  Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.
+  When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,
+  She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
+  Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!
+
+    Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places
+  Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;--
+  Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,
+  Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
+  Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
+  Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
+  Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;
+  Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
+  Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty.
+  Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
+  Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead,
+  Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon,
+  As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.
+
+
+
+  V.
+
+
+    IN that delightful land, which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
+  Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle.
+  Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
+  There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
+  And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
+  As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
+  There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
+  Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
+  There old René Leblanc had died; and when he departed,
+  Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
+  Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city,
+  Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;
+  And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,
+  For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
+  Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
+  So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
+  Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
+  Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
+  As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
+  Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
+  Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
+  So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,
+  Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway
+  Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.
+  Gabriel was not forgotten.  Within her heart was his image,
+  Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
+  Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
+  Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
+  Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
+  He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
+  Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
+  This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
+  So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
+  Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
+  Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
+  Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
+  Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
+  Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
+  Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,
+  Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
+  Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
+  Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
+  High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
+  Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
+  Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,
+  Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.
+
+    Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
+  Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
+  Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
+  And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
+  Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
+  So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
+  Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence.
+  Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;
+  But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;--
+  Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
+  Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
+  Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;--
+  Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket
+  Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
+  Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you."
+  Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy.  The dying
+  Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
+  Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
+  Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
+  Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
+  Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
+  Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.
+
+    Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
+  Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
+  Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden;
+  And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
+  That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
+  Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind,
+  Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,
+  While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
+  Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.
+  Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;
+  Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended";
+  And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
+  Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
+  Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
+  Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces,
+  Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.
+  Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
+  Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
+  Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
+  And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
+  Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
+  Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time;
+  Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.
+
+    Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
+  Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
+  Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,
+  And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
+  Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
+  That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
+  On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
+  Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
+  But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
+  Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
+  So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
+  Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
+  As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
+  That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.
+  Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
+  Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
+  Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
+  Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
+  Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
+  Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
+  "Gabriel!  O my beloved!" and died away into silence.
+  Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
+  Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
+  Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
+  As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
+  Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
+  Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
+  Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
+  Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
+  Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
+  Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
+  Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
+  As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
+
+    All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
+  All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
+  All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
+  And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
+  Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"
+
+
+    STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
+  Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
+  Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
+  In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
+  Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
+  Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
+  Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,
+  Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
+  Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!
+
+    Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches
+  Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
+  Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
+  Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
+  Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
+  In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
+  Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
+  And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story.
+  While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean
+  Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Evangeline, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Evangeline, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Evangeline
+       A Tale of Acadie
+
+Author: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+Posting Date: October 26, 2008 [EBook #2039]
+Release Date: January, 2000
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVANGELINE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Stewart A. Levin.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  Evangeline.
+
+  A Tale of Acadie.
+
+
+  by
+
+  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
+
+
+
+
+    THIS is the forest primeval.  The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
+  Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
+  Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
+  Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
+  Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
+  Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+    This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
+  Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
+  Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
+  Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
+  Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
+  Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
+  Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
+  Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
+  Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
+
+    Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
+  Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
+  List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
+  List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
+
+
+
+
+
+  PART THE FIRST.
+
+
+
+
+  I
+
+
+    IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
+  Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
+  Lay in the fruitful valley.  Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
+  Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
+  Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
+  Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
+  Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
+  West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
+  Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
+  Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
+  Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
+  Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
+  There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
+  Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,
+  Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
+  Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
+  Over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way.
+  There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
+  Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
+  Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
+  Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
+  Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
+  Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.
+  Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
+  Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
+  Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
+  Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
+  Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
+  Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed.  Anon from the belfry
+  Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
+  Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
+  Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
+  Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
+  Dwelt in the love of God and of man.  Alike were they free from
+  Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
+  Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
+  But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
+  There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
+
+    Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
+  Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,
+  Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
+  Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
+  Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
+  Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
+  White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.
+  Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
+  Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
+  Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
+  Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
+  When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
+  Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
+  Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
+  Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
+  Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
+  Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
+  Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
+  Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
+  Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
+  But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
+  Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+  Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+  When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+    Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
+  Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
+  Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
+  Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
+  Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
+  Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
+  Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
+  Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
+  Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
+  Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
+  Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,
+  There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;
+  There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
+  Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
+  Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
+  Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village.  In each one
+  Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
+  Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
+  There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
+  Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
+  Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
+
+    Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre
+  Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.
+  Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,
+  Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion;
+  Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!
+  Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,
+  And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,
+  Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;
+  Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
+  Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered
+  Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.
+  But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;
+  Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,
+  Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;
+  For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
+  Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
+  Basil was Benedict's friend.  Their children from earliest childhood
+  Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,
+  Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
+  Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.
+  But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,
+  Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
+  There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him
+  Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,
+  Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel
+  Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
+  Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness
+  Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,
+  Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,
+  And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
+  Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
+  Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
+  Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
+  Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
+  Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
+  Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;
+  Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!
+  Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.
+  He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,
+  Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened through into action.
+  She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
+  "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine
+  Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;
+  She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,
+  Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.
+
+
+
+  II.
+
+
+    NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
+  And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
+  Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
+  Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
+  Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
+  Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
+  All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
+  Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
+  Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
+  Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
+  Such was the advent of autumn.  Then followed that beautiful season,
+  Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
+  Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
+  Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
+  Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
+  Was for a moment consoled.  All sounds were in harmony blended.
+  Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
+  Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
+  All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
+  Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
+  While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
+  Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
+  Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
+
+    Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
+  Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
+  Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
+  Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
+  And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
+  Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
+  Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,
+  Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
+  Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
+  Where was their favorite pasture.  Behind them followed the watch-dog,
+  Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
+  Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
+  Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
+  Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
+  When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.
+  Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
+  Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
+  Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
+  While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
+  Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
+  Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
+  Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
+  Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
+  Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
+  Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
+  Echoed back by the barns.  Anon they sank into stillness;
+  Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
+  Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
+
+    In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
+  Sat in his elbow-chair; and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
+  Struggled together like foe in a burning city.  Behind him,
+  Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
+  Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
+  Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
+  Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser
+  Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
+  Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
+  Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
+  Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
+  Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
+  Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.
+  Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
+  While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
+  Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together.
+  As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
+  Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
+  So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
+
+    Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
+  Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
+  Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
+  And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
+  "Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,
+  "Welcome, Basil, my friend!  Come, take thy place on the settle
+  Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
+  Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
+  Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling
+  Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams
+  Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
+  Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
+  Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--
+  "Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
+  Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
+  Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
+  Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."
+  Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
+  And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--
+  "Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
+  Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us,
+  What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded
+  On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
+  Will be proclaimed as law in the land.  Alas! in the mean time
+  Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
+  Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose
+  Brings these ships to our shores.  Perhaps the harvests in England
+  By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
+  And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."
+  "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,
+  Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--
+  "Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.
+  Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
+  Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.
+  Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
+  Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."
+  Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--
+  "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
+  Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
+  Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
+  Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow
+  Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.
+  Built are the house and the barn.  The merry lads of the village
+  Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,
+  Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
+  Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
+  Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
+  As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,
+  Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,
+  And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
+
+
+
+  III.
+
+
+    BENT like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
+  Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
+  Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
+  Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
+  Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
+  Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
+  Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
+  Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
+  Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
+  Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
+  Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
+  He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
+  For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
+  And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
+  And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
+  Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
+  And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
+  And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
+  And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,
+  With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
+  Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
+  Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
+  "Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,
+  And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."
+  Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public:--
+  "Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
+  And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
+  Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
+  Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"
+  "God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;
+  "Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?
+  Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"
+  But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public:--
+  "Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
+  Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
+  When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
+  This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
+  When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
+  "Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
+  Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
+  Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
+  And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
+  Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
+  Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
+  Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
+  But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
+  Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty
+  Ruled with an iron rod.  Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
+  That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
+  Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
+  She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
+  Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
+  As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
+  Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
+  Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
+  Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
+  And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
+  Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
+  Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
+  Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
+  All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
+  Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
+
+    Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
+  Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
+  Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;
+  While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
+  Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
+  Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
+  Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
+  And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
+  Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
+  Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
+  And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
+  Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
+  Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
+  While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
+  Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
+  Soon was the game begun.  In friendly contention the old men
+  Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,
+  Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.
+  Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
+  Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
+  Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.
+  Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
+  Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
+
+    Thus passed the evening away.  Anon the bell from the belfry
+  Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
+  Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
+  Many a farewell word and sweet good night on the door-step
+  Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
+  Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone;
+  And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
+  Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.
+  Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
+  Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
+  Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
+  Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
+  Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
+  Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
+  This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
+  Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.
+  Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
+  Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden
+  Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
+  Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
+  Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
+  Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
+  Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.
+  Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
+  Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
+  Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
+  And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
+  Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
+  As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!
+
+
+
+  IV.
+
+
+    PLEASANTLY rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.
+  Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
+  Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.
+  Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
+  Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
+  Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
+  Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
+  Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
+  Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
+  Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
+  Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.
+  Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
+  Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors
+  Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together,
+  Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
+  For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
+  All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.
+  Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:
+  For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
+  Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness
+  Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
+
+    Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
+  Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
+  There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;
+  There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
+  Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,
+  Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.
+  Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white
+  Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler
+  Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.
+  Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,
+  Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,
+  And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.
+  Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
+  Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
+  Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.
+  Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
+  Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!
+
+    So passed the morning away.  And lo! with a summons sonorous
+  Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
+  Thronged erelong was the church with men.  Without, in the churchyard,
+  Waited the women.  They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
+  Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
+  Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them
+  Entered the sacred portal.  With loud and dissonant clangor
+  Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--
+  Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
+  Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
+  Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,
+  Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
+  "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.
+  Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,
+  Let your own hearts reply!  To my natural make and my temper
+  Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
+  Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
+  Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds
+  Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province
+  Be transported to other lands.  God grant you may dwell there
+  Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
+  Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
+  As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,
+  Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
+  Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,
+  Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,
+  Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
+  So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.
+  Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose
+  Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
+  And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.
+  Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations
+  Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others
+  Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,
+  As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
+  Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--
+  "Down with the tyrants of England!  we never have sworn them allegiance!
+  Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"
+  More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier
+  Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
+
+    In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
+  Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
+  Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
+  Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
+  All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;
+  Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful
+  Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
+  "What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?
+  Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,
+  Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
+  Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
+  Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?
+  This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it
+  Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?
+  Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!
+  See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!
+  Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'
+  Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,
+  Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"
+  Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
+  Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
+  And they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
+
+    Then came the evening service.  The tapers gleamed from the altar.
+  Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
+  Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria
+  Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,
+  Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.
+
+    Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides
+  Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
+  Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand
+  Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,
+  Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each
+  Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.
+  Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;
+  There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;
+  There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy,
+  And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.
+  Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
+  Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.
+  Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
+  And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--
+  Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!
+  Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,
+  Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women,
+  As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,
+  Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.
+  Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
+  Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
+  Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
+
+    Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.
+  All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
+  Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,
+  "Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer
+  Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.
+  Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.
+  Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted,
+  Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.
+  Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
+  In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall
+  Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.
+  Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder
+  Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!
+  Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;
+  Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
+
+
+
+  V.
+
+
+    FOUR times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
+  Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
+  Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
+  Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
+  Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
+  Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
+  Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
+  Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
+  While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
+
+    Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
+  Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
+  All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;
+  All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
+  Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
+  Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
+  Thither the women and children thronged.  On a sudden the church-doors
+  Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
+  Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
+  Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
+  Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
+  So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
+  Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
+  Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
+  Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
+  "Sacred heart of the Saviour!  O inexhaustible fountain!
+  Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
+  Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside
+  Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
+  Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
+
+    Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
+  Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
+  Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
+  And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
+  Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
+  Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder and whispered,--
+  "Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another,
+  Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"
+  Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
+  Saw she slowly advancing.  Alas! how changed was his aspect!
+  Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep
+  Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.
+  But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,
+  Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
+  Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
+
+    There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
+  Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
+  Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children
+  Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
+  So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
+  While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
+  Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
+  Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
+  Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
+  Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
+  Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
+  Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
+  All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
+  Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
+  Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
+  Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
+  Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
+  Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
+  Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
+  Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
+  Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.
+  Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
+  Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
+
+    But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
+  Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
+  Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
+  Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.
+  Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
+  Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
+  Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
+  Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
+  And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
+  Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
+  E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
+  Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
+  Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
+  But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.
+  "Benedicite!" murmured the priest; in tones of compassion.
+  More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
+  Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
+  Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
+  Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
+  Raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them
+  Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
+  Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
+
+    Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
+  Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
+  Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,
+  Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
+  Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
+  Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
+  Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
+  Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.
+  Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
+  Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
+  Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
+
+    These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
+  Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
+  "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!"
+  Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
+  Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
+  Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
+  Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
+  Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
+  When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
+  Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
+  Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
+  Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
+
+    Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden
+  Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
+  And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
+  Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore
+  Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
+  Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
+  Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
+  Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
+  Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;
+  And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
+  Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,
+  Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
+  Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
+  Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
+  And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.
+  Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--
+  "Let us bury him here by the sea.  When a happier season
+  Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
+  Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
+  Such were the words of the priest.  And there in haste by the seaside,
+  Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
+  But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre.
+  And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
+  Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
+  Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
+  'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
+  With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
+  Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
+  And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
+  Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
+
+
+
+
+
+  PART THE SECOND.
+
+
+
+
+  I.
+
+
+    MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre,
+  When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
+  Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,
+  Exile without an end, and without an example in story.
+  Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;
+  Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast
+  Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.
+  Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,
+  From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,--
+  From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters
+  Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,
+  Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.
+  Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,
+  Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.
+  Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.
+  Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
+  Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.
+  Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,
+  Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway
+  Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,
+  Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
+  As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by
+  Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
+  Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;
+  As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
+  Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
+  Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
+  Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,
+  Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
+  She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;
+  Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,
+  Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
+  He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.
+  Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
+  Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.
+  Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,
+  But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.
+  "Gabriel Lajeunesse!" they said; "O yes! we have seen him.
+  He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;
+  Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers,"
+  "Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "O yes! we have seen him.
+  He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana."
+  Then would they say: "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?
+  Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
+  Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?
+  Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee
+  Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!
+  Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."
+  Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot!
+  Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.
+  For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,
+  Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness."
+  Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,
+  Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!
+  Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;
+  If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
+  Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;
+  That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
+  Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!
+  Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
+  Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
+  Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!"
+  Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited.
+  Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
+  But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not!"
+  Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,
+  Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.
+  Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;--
+  Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;
+  But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley:
+  Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
+  Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;
+  Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,
+  Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;
+  Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.
+
+
+
+  II.
+
+
+    IT was the month of May.  Far down the Beautiful River,
+  Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,
+  Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,
+  Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.
+  It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked
+  Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,
+  Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;
+  Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,
+  Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers
+  On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.
+  With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.
+  Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness somber with forests,
+  Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;
+  Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.
+  Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike
+  Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,
+  Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars
+  Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,
+  Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.
+  Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,
+  Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,
+  Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.
+  They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,
+  Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,
+  Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.
+  They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,
+  Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,
+  Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.
+  Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress
+  Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air
+  Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
+  Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
+  Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,
+  Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.
+  Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,
+  Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,
+  Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.
+  Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;
+  And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--
+  Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.
+  As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,
+  Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,
+  So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,
+  Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.
+  But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly
+  Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.
+  It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.
+  Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,
+  And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.
+
+    Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,
+  And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure
+  Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.
+  Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,
+  Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest.
+  Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.
+  Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,
+  Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;
+  But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;
+  And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
+  Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,
+  Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,
+  Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,
+  And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,
+  Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,
+  Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.
+
+    Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them
+  Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.
+  Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations
+  Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus
+  Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.
+  Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,
+  And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,
+  Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,
+  Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.
+  Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.
+  Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,
+  Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,
+  Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.
+  Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.
+  Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine
+  Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,
+  On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,
+  Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.
+  Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.
+  Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven
+  Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.
+
+    Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,
+  Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
+  Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.
+  Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.
+  At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and care-worn.
+  Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness
+  Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.
+  Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,
+  Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.
+  Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,
+  But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,
+  So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows,
+  And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers,
+  Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.
+  Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.
+  After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,
+  As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden
+  Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician!
+  Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.
+  Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?
+  Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"
+  Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy!
+  Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."
+  But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--
+  "Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning.
+  Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
+  Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
+  Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
+  Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,
+  On the banks of the Teche are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.
+  There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,
+  There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.
+  Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;
+  Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens
+  Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.
+  They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana."
+
+    With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.
+  Softly the evening came.  The sun from the western horizon
+  Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
+  Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
+  Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
+  Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,
+  Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.
+  Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.
+  Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling
+  Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.
+  Then from a neighboring thicket the mockingbird, wildest of singers,
+  Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
+  Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
+  That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
+  Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness
+  Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
+  Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
+  Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
+  As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree tops
+  Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.
+  With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,
+  Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,
+  And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,
+  Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--
+  Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.
+
+
+
+  III.
+
+
+    NEAR to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches
+  Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
+  Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,
+  Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman.  A garden
+  Girdled it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
+  Filling the air with fragrance.  The house itself was of timbers
+  Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.
+  Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,
+  Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,
+  Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.
+  At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,
+  Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,
+  Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.
+  Silence reigned o'er the place.  The line of shadow and sunshine
+  Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,
+  And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding
+  Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.
+  In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway
+  Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,
+  Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.
+  Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas
+  Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,
+  Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines.
+
+    Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,
+  Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,
+  Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.
+  Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero
+  Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.
+  Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing
+  Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness
+  That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.
+  Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding
+  Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded
+  Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.
+  Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle
+  Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.
+  Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,
+  And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.
+  Then as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden
+  Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.
+  Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward
+  Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;
+  When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.
+  Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.
+  There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer
+  Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,
+  Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.
+  Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings
+  Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,
+  Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya,
+  How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?"
+  Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.
+  Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,
+  "Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,
+  All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.
+  Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--
+  "Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.
+  Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.
+  Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit
+  Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.
+  Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,
+  Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,
+  He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,
+  Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him
+  Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.
+  Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,
+  Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
+  Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;
+  He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.
+  Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning
+  We will follow him fast and bring him back to his prison."
+
+    Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,
+  Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.
+  Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,
+  Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.
+  Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
+  "Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"
+  As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway
+  Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man
+  Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,
+  Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
+  Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.
+  Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,
+  All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;
+  Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,
+  And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;
+  Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.
+  Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda,
+  Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
+  Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.
+
+    Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.
+  All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,
+  Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,
+  Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.
+  Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman
+  Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.
+  Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,
+  Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--
+  "Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,
+  Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!
+  Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;
+  Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.
+  Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.
+  All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows
+  More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.
+  Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;
+  Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber
+  With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.
+  After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,
+  No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,
+  Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle."
+  Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,
+  While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,
+  So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,
+  Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff halfway to his nostrils.
+  But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:
+  "Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!
+  For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,
+  Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!"
+  Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching
+  Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.
+  It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
+  Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman.
+  Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:
+  Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,
+  Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,
+  Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
+  But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding
+  From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,
+  Broke up all further speech.  Away, like children delighted,
+  All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening
+  Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,
+  Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.
+
+    Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman
+  Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;
+  While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
+  Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
+  Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness
+  Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.
+  Beautiful was the night.  Behind the black wall of the forest,
+  Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.  On the river
+  Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,
+  Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.
+  Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden
+  Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions
+  Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.
+  Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,
+  Hung the heart of the maiden.  The calm and the magical moonlight
+  Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
+  As, through the garden gate, beneath the shade of the oak-trees,
+  Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
+  Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and the fire-flies
+  Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
+  Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
+  Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,
+  Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,
+  As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."
+  And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,
+  Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel!  O my beloved!
+  Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?
+  Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?
+  Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
+  Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!
+  Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
+  Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!
+  When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"
+  Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded
+  Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,
+  Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
+  "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;
+  And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"
+
+    Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden
+  Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses
+  With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.
+  "Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;
+  "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,
+  And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming."
+  "Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended
+  Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.
+  Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,
+  Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,
+  Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.
+  Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,
+  Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,
+  Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain
+  Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;
+  Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,
+  Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord,
+  That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,
+  Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.
+
+
+
+  IV.
+
+
+    FAR in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains
+  Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.
+  Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,
+  Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon,
+  Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.
+  Eastward, with devious course, among the Windriver Mountains,
+  Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;
+  And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,
+  Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,
+  Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,
+  Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.
+  Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,
+  Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
+  Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
+  Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;
+  Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;
+  Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;
+  Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,
+  Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails
+  Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,
+  Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
+  By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
+  Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;
+  Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;
+  And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
+  Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside,
+  And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
+  Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.
+
+    Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,
+  Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
+  Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
+  Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.
+  Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire
+  Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,
+  When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.
+  And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,
+  Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana
+  Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.
+
+    Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered
+  Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
+  Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
+  She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
+  From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,
+  Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.
+  Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome
+  Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
+  On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
+  But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
+  Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
+  Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light
+  Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,
+  Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated
+  Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
+  All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
+  Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
+  Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
+  Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,
+  Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,
+  She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
+  Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
+  Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror
+  Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;
+  Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
+  But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
+  Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
+  Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.
+  Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,
+  Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,
+  That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
+  Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
+  Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
+  And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people.
+  Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened
+  To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her
+  Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.
+  Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
+  Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor
+  Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.
+  With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches
+  Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
+  Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,
+  Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
+  As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
+  It was no earthly fear.  A breath from the region of spirits
+  Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment
+  That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
+  With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.
+
+    Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee
+  Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western slope of these mountains
+  Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.
+  Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;
+  Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."
+  Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,
+  "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"
+  Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,
+  Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
+  And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,
+  Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.
+  Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
+  Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children.  A crucifix fastened
+  High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines,
+  Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
+  This was their rural chapel.  Aloft, through the intricate arches
+  Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
+  Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
+  Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,
+  Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.
+  But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
+  Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
+  Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers and bade them
+  Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,
+  Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,
+  And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.
+  There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear
+  Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.
+  Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:--
+  "Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated
+  On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,
+  Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!"
+  Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;
+  But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes
+  Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
+  "Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn,
+  When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."
+  Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
+  "Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
+  So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,
+  Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
+  Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.
+
+    Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,--
+  Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing
+  Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,
+  Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
+  Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
+  Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens
+  Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
+  But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield.
+  Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.
+  "Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!
+  Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
+  See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;
+  This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended
+  Here on its fragile stock, to direct the traveller's journey
+  Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
+  Such in the soul of man is faith.  The blossoms of passion,
+  Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
+  But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
+  Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
+  Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe."
+
+    So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,--yet Gabriel came not;
+  Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
+  Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
+  But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
+  Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
+  Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
+  Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river.
+  And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
+  Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.
+  When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,
+  She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
+  Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!
+
+    Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places
+  Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;--
+  Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,
+  Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
+  Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
+  Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
+  Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;
+  Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
+  Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty.
+  Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
+  Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead,
+  Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon,
+  As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.
+
+
+
+  V.
+
+
+    IN that delightful land, which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
+  Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle.
+  Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
+  There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
+  And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
+  As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
+  There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
+  Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
+  There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed,
+  Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
+  Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city,
+  Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;
+  And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,
+  For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
+  Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
+  So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
+  Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
+  Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
+  As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
+  Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
+  Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
+  So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,
+  Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway
+  Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.
+  Gabriel was not forgotten.  Within her heart was his image,
+  Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
+  Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
+  Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
+  Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
+  He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
+  Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
+  This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
+  So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
+  Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
+  Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
+  Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
+  Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
+  Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
+  Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,
+  Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
+  Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
+  Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
+  High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
+  Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
+  Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,
+  Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.
+
+    Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
+  Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
+  Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
+  And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
+  Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
+  So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
+  Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence.
+  Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;
+  But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;--
+  Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
+  Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
+  Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;--
+  Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket
+  Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
+  Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you."
+  Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy.  The dying
+  Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
+  Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
+  Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
+  Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
+  Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
+  Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.
+
+    Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
+  Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
+  Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden;
+  And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
+  That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
+  Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind,
+  Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,
+  While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
+  Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.
+  Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;
+  Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended";
+  And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
+  Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
+  Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
+  Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces,
+  Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.
+  Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
+  Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
+  Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
+  And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
+  Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
+  Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time;
+  Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.
+
+    Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
+  Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
+  Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,
+  And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
+  Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
+  That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
+  On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
+  Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
+  But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
+  Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
+  So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
+  Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
+  As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
+  That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.
+  Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
+  Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
+  Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
+  Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
+  Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
+  Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
+  "Gabriel!  O my beloved!" and died away into silence.
+  Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
+  Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
+  Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
+  As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
+  Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
+  Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
+  Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
+  Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
+  Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
+  Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
+  Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
+  As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
+
+    All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
+  All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
+  All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
+  And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
+  Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"
+
+
+    STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
+  Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
+  Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
+  In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
+  Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
+  Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
+  Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,
+  Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
+  Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!
+
+    Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches
+  Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
+  Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
+  Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
+  Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
+  In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
+  Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
+  And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story.
+  While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean
+  Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Evangeline, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Evangeline, by Henry W. Longfellow
+#6 in our series by Henry W. Longfellow
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+Evangeline
+A Tale of Acadie
+
+by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+January, 2000  [Etext #2039]
+
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Evangeline, by Henry W. Longfellow
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+This etext was prepared by Stewart A. Levin, Englewood, CO. from
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+
+
+
+
+Evangeline.
+
+A Tale of Acadie.
+
+by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
+
+
+
+
+  THIS is the forest primeval.  The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
+Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
+Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
+Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
+Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
+Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+  This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
+Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
+Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
+Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
+Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
+Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
+Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
+Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
+Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
+
+  Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
+Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
+List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
+List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
+
+
+
+
+
+PART THE FIRST.
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+  IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
+Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
+Lay in the fruitful valley.  Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
+Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
+Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
+Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
+Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
+West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
+Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
+Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
+Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
+Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
+There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
+Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,
+Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
+Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
+Over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way.
+There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
+Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, 
+Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
+Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
+Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
+Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.
+Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
+Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
+Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
+Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
+Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
+Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed.  Anon from the belfry
+Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
+Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
+Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
+Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
+Dwelt in the love of God and of man.  Alike were they free from
+Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
+Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
+But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
+There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
+
+  Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
+Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,
+Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
+Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
+Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
+Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; 
+White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.
+Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
+Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
+Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
+Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
+When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
+Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
+Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
+Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
+Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
+Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
+Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
+Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
+Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
+But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- 
+Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+  Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
+Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
+Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
+Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
+Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
+Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
+Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
+Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
+Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
+Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
+Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,
+There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; 
+There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
+Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
+Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
+Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village.  In each one
+Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
+Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
+There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
+Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
+Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
+
+  Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre
+Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.
+Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,
+Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion;
+Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!
+Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,
+And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,
+Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;
+Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
+Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered
+Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.
+But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;
+Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,
+Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;
+For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
+Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
+Basil was Benedict's friend.  Their children from earliest childhood
+Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,
+Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
+Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.
+But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,
+Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
+There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him
+Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,
+Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel
+Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
+Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness
+Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,
+Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,
+And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
+Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
+Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
+Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
+Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
+Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
+Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;
+Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!
+Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.
+He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,
+Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened through into action.
+She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
+"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine
+Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;
+She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,
+Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+  NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
+And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
+Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
+Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
+Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
+Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
+All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
+Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
+Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
+Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
+Such was the advent of autumn.  Then followed that beautiful season,
+Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
+Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
+Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
+Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
+Was for a moment consoled.  All sounds were in harmony blended.
+Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
+Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
+All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
+Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
+While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
+Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
+Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
+
+  Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
+Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
+Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
+Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
+And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
+Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
+Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,
+Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
+Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
+Where was their favorite pasture.  Behind them followed the watch-dog,
+Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
+Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
+Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
+Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
+When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.
+Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
+Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
+Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
+While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
+Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
+Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
+Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
+Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
+Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
+Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
+Echoed back by the barns.  Anon they sank into stillness;
+Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
+Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
+
+  In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
+Sat in his elbow-chair; and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
+Struggled together like foe in a burning city.  Behind him,
+Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
+Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
+Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
+Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser
+Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
+Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
+Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
+Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
+Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
+Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.
+Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
+While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
+Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together.
+As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
+Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
+So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
+
+  Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
+Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
+Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
+And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
+"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,
+"Welcome, Basil, my friend!  Come, take thy place on the settle
+Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
+Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
+Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling
+Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams
+Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
+Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
+Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--
+"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
+Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
+Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
+Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."
+Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
+And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--
+"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
+Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us,
+What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded
+On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
+Will be proclaimed as law in the land.  Alas! in the mean time
+Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
+Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose
+Brings these ships to our shores.  Perhaps the harvests in England
+By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
+And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."
+"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,
+Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--
+"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.
+Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
+Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.
+Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
+Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."
+Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--
+"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
+Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
+Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
+Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow
+Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.
+Built are the house and the barn.  The merry lads of the village
+Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,
+Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
+Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
+Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
+As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,
+Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,
+And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
+
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  BENT like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
+Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
+Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
+Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
+Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
+Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
+Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
+Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
+Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
+Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
+Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
+He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
+For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
+And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
+And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
+Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
+And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
+And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
+And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horsehoes,
+With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
+Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
+Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
+"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,
+And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."
+Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public:--
+"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
+And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
+Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
+Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"
+"God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;
+"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?
+Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"
+But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public:--
+"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
+Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
+When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
+This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
+When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
+"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
+Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
+Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
+And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
+Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
+Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
+Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
+But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
+Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty
+Ruled with an iron rod.  Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
+That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
+Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
+She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
+Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
+As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
+Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
+Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
+Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
+And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
+Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
+Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
+Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
+All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
+Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
+
+  Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
+Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
+Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;
+While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
+Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
+Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
+Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
+And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
+Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
+Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
+And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
+Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
+Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
+While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
+Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
+Soon was the game begun.  In friendly contention the old men
+Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,
+Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.
+Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
+Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
+Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.
+Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
+Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
+
+  Thus passed the evening away.  Anon the bell from the belfry
+Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
+Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
+Many a farewell word and sweet good night on the door-step
+Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
+Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone;
+And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
+Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.
+Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
+Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
+Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
+Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
+Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
+Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
+This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
+Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.
+Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
+Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden
+Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
+Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
+Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
+Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
+Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.
+Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
+Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
+Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
+And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
+Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
+As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+  PLEASANTLY rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.
+Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
+Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.
+Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
+Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
+Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
+Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
+Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
+Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
+Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
+Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.
+Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
+Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors
+Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together,
+Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
+For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
+All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.
+Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:
+For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
+Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness
+Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
+
+  Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
+Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
+There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;
+There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
+Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,
+Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.
+Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white
+Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler
+Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.
+Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,
+Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,
+And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.
+Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
+Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
+Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.
+Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
+Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!
+
+  So passed the morning away.  And lo! with a summons sonorous
+Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
+Thronged erelong was the church with men.  Without, in the churchyard,
+Waited the women.  They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
+Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
+Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them
+Entered the sacred portal.  With loud and dissonant clangor
+Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--
+Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
+Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
+Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,
+Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
+"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.
+Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,
+Let your own hearts reply!  To my natural make and my temper
+Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
+Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
+Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds
+Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province
+Be transported to other lands.  God grant you may dwell there
+Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
+Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
+As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,
+Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
+Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,
+Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,
+Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
+So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.
+Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose
+Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
+And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.
+Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations
+Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others
+Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,
+As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
+Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--
+"Down with the tyrants of England!  we never have sworn them allegiance!
+Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"
+More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier
+Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
+
+  In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
+Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
+Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
+Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
+All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;
+Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful
+Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
+"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?
+Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,
+Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
+Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
+Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?
+This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it
+Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?
+Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!
+See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!
+Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, `O Father, forgive them!'
+Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,
+Let us repeat it now, and say, `O Father, forgive them!' "
+Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
+Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
+And they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
+
+  Then came the evening service.  The tapers gleamed from the altar.
+Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
+Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria
+Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,
+Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.
+
+  Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides
+Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
+Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand
+Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,
+Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each
+Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.
+Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;
+There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;
+There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy,
+And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.
+Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
+Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.
+Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
+And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--
+Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!
+Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,
+Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women,
+As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,
+Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.
+Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
+Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
+Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
+
+  Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.
+All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
+Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,
+"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer
+Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.
+Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.
+Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted,
+Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.
+Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
+In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall
+Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.
+Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder
+Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!
+Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;
+Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+  FOUR times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
+Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
+Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
+Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
+Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
+Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
+Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
+Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
+While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
+
+  Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
+Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
+All day long between theshore and the ships did the boats ply;
+All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
+Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
+Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
+Thither the women and children thronged.  On a sudden the church-doors
+Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
+Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
+Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
+Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
+So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
+Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
+Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
+Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
+"Sacred heart of the Saviour!  O inexhaustible fountain!
+Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
+Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside
+Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
+Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
+
+  Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
+Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
+Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
+And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
+Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
+Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder and whispered,--
+"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another,
+Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"
+Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
+Saw she slowly advancing.  Alas! how changed was his aspect!
+Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep
+Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.
+But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,
+Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
+Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
+
+  There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
+Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
+Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children
+Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
+So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
+While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
+Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
+Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
+Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
+Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
+Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
+Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
+All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
+Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
+Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
+Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
+Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
+Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
+Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
+Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
+Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.
+Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
+Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
+
+  But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
+Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
+Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
+Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.
+Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
+Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
+Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
+Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
+And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
+Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
+E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
+Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
+Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
+But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.
+"Benedicite!" murmured the priest; in tones of compassion.
+More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
+Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
+Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
+Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
+Raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them
+Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
+Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
+
+  Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
+Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
+Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,
+Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
+Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
+Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
+Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
+Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.
+Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
+Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
+Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
+
+  These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
+Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
+"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!"
+Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
+Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
+Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
+Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
+Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
+When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
+Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
+Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
+Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
+
+  Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden
+Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
+And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
+Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore
+Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
+Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
+Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
+Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
+Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;
+And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
+Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,
+Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
+Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
+Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
+And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.
+Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--
+"Let us bury him here by the sea.  When a happier season
+Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
+Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
+Such were the words of the priest.  And there in haste by the seaside,
+Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
+But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre.
+And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
+Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
+Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
+'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
+With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
+Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
+And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
+Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
+
+
+
+
+
+PART THE SECOND.
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+
+  MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre,
+When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
+Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,
+Exile without an end, and without an example in story.
+Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;
+Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast
+Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.
+Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,
+From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,--
+From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters
+Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,
+Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.
+Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,
+Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.
+Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.
+Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
+Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.
+Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,
+Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway
+Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,
+Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
+As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by
+Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
+Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;
+As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
+Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
+Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
+Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,
+Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
+She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;
+Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,
+Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
+He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.
+Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
+Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.
+Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,
+But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.
+"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" they said; "O yes! we have seen him.
+He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;
+Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers,"
+"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "O yes! we have seen him.
+He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana."
+Then would they say: "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?
+Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
+Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?
+Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee
+Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!
+Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."
+Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot!
+Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.
+For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,
+Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness."
+Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,
+Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!
+Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;
+If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
+Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;
+That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
+Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!
+Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
+Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
+Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!"
+Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited.
+Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
+But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not!"
+Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,
+Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.
+Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;--
+Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;
+But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley:
+Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
+Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;
+Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,
+Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;
+Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+  IT was the month of May.  Far down the Beautiful River,
+Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,
+Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,
+Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.
+It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked
+Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,
+Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;
+Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,
+Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers
+On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.
+With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.
+Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness somber with forests,
+Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;
+Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.
+Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike
+Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,
+Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars
+Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,
+Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.
+Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,
+Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,
+Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.
+They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,
+Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,
+Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.
+They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,
+Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,
+Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.
+Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress
+Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air
+Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
+Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
+Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,
+Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.
+Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,
+Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,
+Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.
+Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;
+And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--
+Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.
+As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,
+Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,
+So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,
+Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.
+But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly
+Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.
+It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.
+Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,
+And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.
+
+  Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,
+And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure
+Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.
+Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,
+Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest.
+Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.
+Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,
+Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;
+But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;
+And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
+Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,
+Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,
+Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,
+And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,
+Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,
+Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.
+
+  Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them
+Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.
+Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations
+Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus
+Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.
+Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,
+And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,
+Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,
+Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.
+Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.
+Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,
+Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,
+Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.
+Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.
+Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine
+Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,
+On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,
+Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.
+Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.
+Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven
+Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.
+
+  Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,
+Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
+Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.
+Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.
+At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and care-worn.
+Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness
+Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.
+Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,
+Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.
+Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,
+But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,
+So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows,
+And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers,
+Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.
+Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.
+After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,
+As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden
+Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician!
+Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.
+Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?
+Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"
+Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy!
+Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."
+But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--
+"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning.
+Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
+Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
+Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
+Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,
+On the banks of the Teche are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.
+There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,
+There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.
+Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;
+Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens
+Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.
+They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana."
+
+  With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.
+Softly the evening came.  The sun from the western horizon
+Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
+Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
+Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
+Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,
+Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.
+Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.
+Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling
+Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.
+Then from a neighboring thicket the mockingbird, wildest of singers,
+Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
+Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
+That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
+Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness
+Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
+Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
+Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
+As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree tops
+Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.
+With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,
+Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,
+And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,
+Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--
+Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.
+
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  NEAR to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches
+Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
+Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,
+Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman.  A garden
+Girdled it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
+Filling the air with fragrance.  The house itself was of timbers
+Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.
+Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,
+Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,
+Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.
+At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,
+Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,
+Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.
+Silence reigned o'er the place.  The line of shadow and sunshine
+Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,
+And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding
+Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.
+In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway
+Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,
+Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.
+Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas
+Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,
+Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines.
+
+  Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,
+Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,
+Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.
+Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero
+Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.
+Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing
+Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness
+That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.
+Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding
+Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded
+Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.
+Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle
+Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.
+Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,
+And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.
+Then as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden
+Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.
+Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward
+Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;
+When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.
+Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.
+There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer
+Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,
+Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.
+Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings
+Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,
+Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya,
+How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?"
+Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.
+Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,
+"Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,
+All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.
+Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--
+"Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.
+Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.
+Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit
+Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.
+Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,
+Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,
+He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,
+Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him
+Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.
+Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,
+Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
+Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;
+He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.
+Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning
+We will follow him fast and bring him back to his prison."
+
+  Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,
+Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.
+Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,
+Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.
+Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
+"Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"
+As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway
+Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man
+Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,
+Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
+Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.
+Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,
+All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;
+Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,
+And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;
+Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.
+Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda,
+Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
+Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.
+
+  Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.
+All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,
+Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,
+Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.
+Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman
+Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.
+Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,
+Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--
+"Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,
+Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!
+Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;
+Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.
+Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.
+All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows
+More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.
+Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;
+Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber
+With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.
+After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,
+No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,
+Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle."
+Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,
+While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,
+So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,
+Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff halfway to his nostrils.
+But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:
+"Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!
+For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,
+Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!"
+Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching
+Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.
+It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
+Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman.
+Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:
+Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,
+Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,
+Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
+But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding
+From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,
+Broke up all further speech.  Away, like children delighted,
+All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening
+Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,
+Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.
+
+  Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman
+Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;
+While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
+Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
+Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness
+Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.
+Beautiful was the night.  Behind the black wall of the forest,
+Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.  On the river
+Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,
+Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.
+Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden
+Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions
+Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.
+Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,
+Hung the heart of the maiden.  The calm and the magical moonlight
+Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
+As, through the garden gate, beneath the shade of the oak-trees,
+Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
+Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and the fire-flies
+Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
+Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
+Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,
+Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,
+As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."
+And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,
+Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel!  O my beloved!
+Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?
+Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?
+Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
+Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!
+Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
+Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!
+When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"
+Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded
+Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,
+Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
+"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;
+And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"
+
+  Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden
+Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses
+With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.
+"Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;
+"See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,
+And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming."
+"Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended
+Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.
+Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,
+Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,
+Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.
+Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,
+Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,
+Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain
+Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;
+Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,
+Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord,
+That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,
+Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+  FAR in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains
+Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.
+Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,
+Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon,
+Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.
+Eastward, with devious course, among the Windriver Mountains,
+Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;
+And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,
+Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,
+Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,
+Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.
+Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,
+Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
+Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
+Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;
+Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;
+Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;
+Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,
+Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails
+Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,
+Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
+By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
+Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;
+Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;
+And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
+Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside,
+And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
+Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.
+
+  Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,
+Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
+Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
+Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.
+Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire
+Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,
+When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.
+And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,
+Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana
+Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.
+
+  Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered
+Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
+Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
+She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
+From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,
+Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.
+Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome
+Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
+On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
+But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
+Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
+Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light
+Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,
+Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated
+Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
+All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
+Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
+Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
+Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,
+Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,
+She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
+Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
+Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror
+Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;
+Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
+But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
+Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
+Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.
+Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,
+Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,
+That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
+Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
+Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
+And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people.
+Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened
+To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her
+Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.
+Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
+Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor
+Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.
+With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches
+Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
+Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,
+Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
+As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
+It was no earthly fear.  A breath from the region of spirits
+Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment
+That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
+With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.
+
+  Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee
+Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western slope of these mountains
+Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.
+Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;
+Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."
+Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,
+"Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"
+Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,
+Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
+And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,
+Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.
+Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
+Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children.  A crucifix fastened
+High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines,
+Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
+This was their rural chapel.  Aloft, through the intricate arches
+Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
+Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
+Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,
+Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.
+But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
+Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
+Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers and bade them
+Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,
+Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,
+And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.
+There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear
+Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.
+Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:--
+"Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated
+On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,
+Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!"
+Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;
+But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes
+Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
+"Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn,
+When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."
+Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
+"Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
+So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,
+Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
+Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.
+
+  Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,--
+Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing
+Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,
+Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
+Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
+Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens
+Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
+But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield.
+Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.
+"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!
+Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
+See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;
+This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended
+Here on its fragile stock, to direct the traveller's journey
+Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
+Such in the soul of man is faith.  The blossoms of passion,
+Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
+But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
+Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
+Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe."
+
+  So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,--yet Gabriel came not;
+Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
+Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
+But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
+Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
+Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
+Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river.
+And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
+Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.
+When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,
+She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
+Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!
+
+  Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places
+Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;--
+Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,
+Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
+Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
+Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
+Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;
+Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
+Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty.
+Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
+Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead,
+Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon,
+As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+  IN that delightful land, which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
+Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle.
+Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
+There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
+And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
+As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
+There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
+Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
+There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed,
+Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
+Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city,
+Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;
+And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,
+For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
+Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
+So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
+Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
+Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
+As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
+Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
+Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
+So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,
+Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway
+Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.
+Gabriel was not forgotten.  Within her heart was his image,
+Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
+Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
+Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
+Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
+He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
+Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
+This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
+So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
+Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
+Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
+Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
+Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
+Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
+Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,
+Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
+Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
+Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
+High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
+Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
+Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,
+Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.
+
+  Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
+Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
+Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
+And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
+Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
+So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
+Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence.
+Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;
+But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;--
+Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
+Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
+Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;--
+Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket
+Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
+Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you."
+Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy.  The dying
+Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
+Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
+Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
+Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
+Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
+Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.
+
+  Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
+Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
+Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden;
+And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
+That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
+Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind,
+Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,
+While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
+Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.
+Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;
+Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended";
+And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
+Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
+Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
+Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces,
+Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.
+Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
+Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
+Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
+And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
+Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
+Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time;
+Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.
+
+  Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
+Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
+Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,
+And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
+Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
+That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
+On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
+Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
+But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
+Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
+So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
+Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
+As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
+That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.
+Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
+Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
+Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
+Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
+Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
+Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
+"Gabriel!  O my beloved!" and died away into silence.
+Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
+Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
+Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
+As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
+Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
+Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
+Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
+Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
+Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
+Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
+Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
+As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
+
+  All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
+All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
+All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
+And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
+Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"
+
+
+  STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
+Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
+Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
+In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
+Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
+Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
+Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,
+Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
+Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!
+
+  Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches
+Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
+Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
+Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
+Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
+In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
+Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
+And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story.
+While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean
+Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Evangeline, by Henry W. Longfellow
+
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Evangeline, by Henry W. Longfellow
+#6 in our series by Henry W. Longfellow
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+Evangeline
+A Tale of Acadie
+
+by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
+
+January, 2000  [Etext #2039]
+
+
+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Evangeline, by Henry W. Longfellow
+******This file should be named vngln10i.txt or vngln10i.zip******
+
+Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, vngln11i.txt
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+This etext was prepared by Stewart A. Levin, Englewood, CO. from
+the 1895 Minnehaha Edition, Van Cleve-Andrews Co., New York.
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+This etext was prepared by Stewart A. Levin, Englewood, CO. from
+the 1895 Minnehaha Edition, Van Cleve-Andrews Co., New York.
+
+
+
+
+
+Evangeline.
+
+A Tale of Acadie.
+
+by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
+
+
+
+
+  THIS is the forest primeval.  The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
+Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
+Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
+Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
+Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
+Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+  This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
+Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
+Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
+Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
+Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
+Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
+Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
+Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
+Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
+
+  Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
+Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
+List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
+List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
+
+
+
+
+
+PART THE FIRST.
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+  IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
+Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
+Lay in the fruitful valley.  Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
+Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
+Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
+Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
+Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
+West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
+Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
+Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
+Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
+Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
+There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
+Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,
+Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
+Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
+Over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way.
+There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
+Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, 
+Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
+Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
+Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
+Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.
+Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
+Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
+Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
+Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
+Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
+Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed.  Anon from the belfry
+Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
+Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
+Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
+Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
+Dwelt in the love of God and of man.  Alike were they free from
+Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
+Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
+But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
+There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
+
+  Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
+Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,
+Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
+Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
+Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
+Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; 
+White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.
+Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
+Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
+Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
+Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
+When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
+Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
+Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
+Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
+Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
+Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
+Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
+Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
+Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
+But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- 
+Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
+Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
+
+  Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
+Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
+Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
+Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
+Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
+Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
+Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
+Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
+Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
+Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
+Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,
+There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; 
+There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
+Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
+Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
+Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village.  In each one
+Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
+Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
+There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
+Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
+Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
+
+  Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré
+Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.
+Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,
+Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion;
+Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!
+Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,
+And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,
+Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;
+Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
+Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered
+Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.
+But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;
+Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,
+Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;
+For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
+Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
+Basil was Benedict's friend.  Their children from earliest childhood
+Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,
+Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
+Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.
+But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,
+Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
+There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him
+Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,
+Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel
+Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
+Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness
+Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,
+Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,
+And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
+Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
+Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
+Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
+Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
+Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
+Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;
+Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!
+Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.
+He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,
+Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened through into action.
+She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
+"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine
+Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;
+She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,
+Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+  NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
+And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
+Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
+Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
+Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
+Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
+All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
+Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
+Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
+Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
+Such was the advent of autumn.  Then followed that beautiful season,
+Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
+Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
+Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
+Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
+Was for a moment consoled.  All sounds were in harmony blended.
+Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
+Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
+All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
+Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
+While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
+Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
+Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
+
+  Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
+Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
+Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
+Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
+And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
+Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
+Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,
+Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
+Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
+Where was their favorite pasture.  Behind them followed the watch-dog,
+Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
+Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
+Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
+Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
+When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.
+Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
+Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
+Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
+While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
+Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
+Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
+Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
+Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
+Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
+Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
+Echoed back by the barns.  Anon they sank into stillness;
+Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
+Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
+
+  In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
+Sat in his elbow-chair; and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
+Struggled together like foe in a burning city.  Behind him,
+Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
+Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
+Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
+Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser
+Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
+Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
+Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
+Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
+Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
+Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.
+Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
+While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
+Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together.
+As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
+Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
+So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
+
+  Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
+Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
+Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
+And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
+"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,
+"Welcome, Basil, my friend!  Come, take thy place on the settle
+Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
+Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
+Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling
+Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams
+Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
+Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
+Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--
+"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
+Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
+Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
+Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."
+Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
+And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--
+"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
+Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us,
+What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded
+On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
+Will be proclaimed as law in the land.  Alas! in the mean time
+Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
+Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose
+Brings these ships to our shores.  Perhaps the harvests in England
+By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
+And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."
+"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,
+Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--
+"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal.
+Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
+Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.
+Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
+Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."
+Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--
+"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
+Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
+Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
+Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow
+Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.
+Built are the house and the barn.  The merry lads of the village
+Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,
+Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
+René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
+Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
+As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,
+Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,
+And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
+
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  BENT like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
+Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
+Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
+Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
+Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
+Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
+Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
+Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
+Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
+Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
+Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
+He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
+For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
+And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
+And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
+Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
+And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
+And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
+And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horsehoes,
+With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
+Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
+Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
+"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,
+And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."
+Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public:--
+"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
+And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
+Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
+Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"
+"God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;
+"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?
+Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"
+But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public:--
+"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
+Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
+When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
+This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
+When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
+"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
+Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
+Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
+And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
+Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
+Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
+Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
+But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
+Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty
+Ruled with an iron rod.  Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
+That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
+Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
+She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
+Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
+As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
+Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
+Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
+Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
+And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
+Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
+Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
+Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
+All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
+Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
+
+  Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
+Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
+Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pré;
+While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
+Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
+Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
+Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
+And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
+Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
+Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
+And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
+Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
+Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
+While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
+Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
+Soon was the game begun.  In friendly contention the old men
+Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,
+Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.
+Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
+Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
+Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.
+Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
+Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
+
+  Thus passed the evening away.  Anon the bell from the belfry
+Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
+Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
+Many a farewell word and sweet good night on the door-step
+Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
+Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone;
+And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
+Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.
+Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
+Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
+Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
+Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
+Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
+Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
+This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
+Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.
+Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
+Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden
+Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
+Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
+Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
+Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
+Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.
+Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
+Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
+Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
+And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
+Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
+As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+  PLEASANTLY rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré.
+Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
+Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.
+Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
+Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
+Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
+Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
+Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
+Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
+Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
+Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.
+Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
+Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors
+Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together,
+Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
+For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
+All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.
+Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:
+For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
+Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness
+Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
+
+  Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
+Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
+There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;
+There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
+Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,
+Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.
+Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white
+Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler
+Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.
+Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,
+Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,
+And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.
+Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
+Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
+Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.
+Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
+Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!
+
+  So passed the morning away.  And lo! with a summons sonorous
+Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
+Thronged erelong was the church with men.  Without, in the churchyard,
+Waited the women.  They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
+Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
+Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them
+Entered the sacred portal.  With loud and dissonant clangor
+Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--
+Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
+Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
+Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,
+Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
+"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.
+Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,
+Let your own hearts reply!  To my natural make and my temper
+Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
+Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
+Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds
+Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province
+Be transported to other lands.  God grant you may dwell there
+Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
+Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
+As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,
+Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
+Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,
+Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,
+Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
+So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.
+Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose
+Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
+And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.
+Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations
+Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others
+Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,
+As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
+Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--
+"Down with the tyrants of England!  we never have sworn them allegiance!
+Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"
+More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier
+Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
+
+  In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
+Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
+Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
+Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
+All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;
+Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful
+Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
+"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?
+Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,
+Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
+Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
+Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?
+This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it
+Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?
+Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!
+See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!
+Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, `O Father, forgive them!'
+Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,
+Let us repeat it now, and say, `O Father, forgive them!' "
+Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
+Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
+And they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
+
+  Then came the evening service.  The tapers gleamed from the altar.
+Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
+Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria
+Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,
+Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.
+
+  Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides
+Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
+Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand
+Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,
+Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each
+Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.
+Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;
+There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;
+There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy,
+And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.
+Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
+Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.
+Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
+And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--
+Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!
+Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,
+Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women,
+As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,
+Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.
+Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
+Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
+Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
+
+  Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.
+All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
+Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,
+"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer
+Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.
+Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.
+Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted,
+Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.
+Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
+In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall
+Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.
+Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder
+Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!
+Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;
+Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+  FOUR times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
+Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
+Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
+Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
+Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
+Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
+Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
+Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
+While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
+
+  Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
+Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
+All day long between theshore and the ships did the boats ply;
+All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
+Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
+Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
+Thither the women and children thronged.  On a sudden the church-doors
+Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
+Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
+Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
+Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
+So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
+Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
+Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
+Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
+"Sacred heart of the Saviour!  O inexhaustible fountain!
+Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
+Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside
+Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
+Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
+
+  Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
+Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
+Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
+And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
+Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
+Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder and whispered,--
+"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another,
+Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"
+Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
+Saw she slowly advancing.  Alas! how changed was his aspect!
+Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep
+Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.
+But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,
+Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
+Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
+
+  There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
+Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
+Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children
+Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
+So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
+While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
+Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
+Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
+Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
+Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
+Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
+Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
+All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
+Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
+Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
+Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
+Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
+Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
+Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
+Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
+Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.
+Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
+Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
+
+  But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
+Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
+Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
+Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.
+Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
+Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
+Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
+Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
+And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
+Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
+E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
+Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
+Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
+But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.
+"Benedicite!" murmured the priest; in tones of compassion.
+More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
+Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
+Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
+Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
+Raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them
+Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
+Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
+
+  Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
+Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
+Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,
+Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
+Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
+Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
+Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
+Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.
+Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
+Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
+Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
+
+  These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
+Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
+"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"
+Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
+Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
+Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
+Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
+Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
+When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
+Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
+Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
+Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
+
+  Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden
+Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
+And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
+Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore
+Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
+Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
+Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
+Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
+Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;
+And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
+Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,
+Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
+Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
+Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
+And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.
+Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--
+"Let us bury him here by the sea.  When a happier season
+Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
+Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
+Such were the words of the priest.  And there in haste by the seaside,
+Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
+But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré.
+And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
+Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
+Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
+'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
+With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
+Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
+And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
+Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
+
+
+
+
+
+PART THE SECOND.
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+
+  MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré,
+When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
+Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,
+Exile without an end, and without an example in story.
+Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;
+Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast
+Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.
+Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,
+From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,--
+From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters
+Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,
+Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.
+Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,
+Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.
+Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.
+Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
+Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.
+Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,
+Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway
+Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,
+Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
+As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by
+Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
+Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;
+As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
+Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
+Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
+Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,
+Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
+She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;
+Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,
+Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
+He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.
+Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
+Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.
+Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,
+But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.
+"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" they said; "O yes! we have seen him.
+He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;
+Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers,"
+"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "O yes! we have seen him.
+He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana."
+Then would they say: "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?
+Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
+Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?
+Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee
+Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!
+Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."
+Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot!
+Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.
+For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,
+Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness."
+Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,
+Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!
+Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;
+If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
+Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;
+That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
+Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!
+Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
+Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
+Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!"
+Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited.
+Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
+But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not!"
+Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,
+Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.
+Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;--
+Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;
+But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley:
+Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
+Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;
+Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,
+Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;
+Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+  IT was the month of May.  Far down the Beautiful River,
+Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,
+Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,
+Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.
+It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked
+Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,
+Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;
+Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,
+Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers
+On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.
+With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.
+Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness somber with forests,
+Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;
+Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.
+Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike
+Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,
+Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars
+Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,
+Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.
+Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,
+Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,
+Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.
+They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,
+Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,
+Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.
+They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,
+Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,
+Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.
+Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress
+Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air
+Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
+Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
+Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,
+Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.
+Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,
+Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,
+Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.
+Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;
+And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--
+Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.
+As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,
+Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,
+So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,
+Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.
+But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly
+Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.
+It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.
+Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,
+And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.
+
+  Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,
+And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure
+Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.
+Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,
+Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest.
+Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.
+Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,
+Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;
+But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;
+And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
+Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,
+Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,
+Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,
+And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,
+Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,
+Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.
+
+  Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them
+Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.
+Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations
+Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus
+Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.
+Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,
+And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,
+Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,
+Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.
+Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.
+Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,
+Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,
+Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.
+Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.
+Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine
+Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,
+On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,
+Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.
+Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.
+Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven
+Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.
+
+  Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,
+Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
+Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.
+Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.
+At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and care-worn.
+Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness
+Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.
+Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,
+Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.
+Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,
+But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,
+So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows,
+And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers,
+Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.
+Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.
+After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,
+As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden
+Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician!
+Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.
+Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?
+Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"
+Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy!
+Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."
+But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--
+"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning.
+Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
+Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
+Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
+Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,
+On the banks of the Têche are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.
+There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,
+There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.
+Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;
+Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens
+Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.
+They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana."
+
+  With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.
+Softly the evening came.  The sun from the western horizon
+Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
+Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
+Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
+Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,
+Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.
+Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.
+Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling
+Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.
+Then from a neighboring thicket the mockingbird, wildest of singers,
+Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
+Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
+That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
+Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness
+Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
+Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
+Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
+As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree tops
+Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.
+With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,
+Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,
+And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,
+Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--
+Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.
+
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  NEAR to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches
+Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
+Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,
+Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman.  A garden
+Girdled it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
+Filling the air with fragrance.  The house itself was of timbers
+Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.
+Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,
+Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,
+Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.
+At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,
+Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,
+Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.
+Silence reigned o'er the place.  The line of shadow and sunshine
+Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,
+And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding
+Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.
+In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway
+Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,
+Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.
+Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas
+Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,
+Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines.
+
+  Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,
+Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,
+Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.
+Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero
+Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.
+Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing
+Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness
+That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.
+Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding
+Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded
+Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.
+Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle
+Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.
+Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,
+And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.
+Then as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden
+Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.
+Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward
+Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;
+When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.
+Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.
+There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer
+Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,
+Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.
+Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings
+Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,
+Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya,
+How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?"
+Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.
+Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,
+"Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,
+All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.
+Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--
+"Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.
+Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.
+Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit
+Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.
+Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,
+Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,
+He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,
+Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him
+Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.
+Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,
+Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
+Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;
+He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.
+Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning
+We will follow him fast and bring him back to his prison."
+
+  Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,
+Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.
+Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,
+Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.
+Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
+"Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"
+As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway
+Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man
+Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,
+Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
+Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.
+Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,
+All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;
+Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,
+And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;
+Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.
+Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda,
+Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
+Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.
+
+  Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.
+All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,
+Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,
+Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.
+Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman
+Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.
+Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,
+Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--
+"Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,
+Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!
+Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;
+Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.
+Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.
+All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows
+More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.
+Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;
+Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber
+With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.
+After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,
+No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,
+Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle."
+Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,
+While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,
+So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,
+Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff halfway to his nostrils.
+But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:
+"Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!
+For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,
+Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!"
+Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching
+Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.
+It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
+Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman.
+Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:
+Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,
+Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,
+Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
+But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding
+From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,
+Broke up all further speech.  Away, like children delighted,
+All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening
+Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,
+Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.
+
+  Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman
+Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;
+While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
+Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
+Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness
+Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.
+Beautiful was the night.  Behind the black wall of the forest,
+Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.  On the river
+Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,
+Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.
+Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden
+Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions
+Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.
+Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,
+Hung the heart of the maiden.  The calm and the magical moonlight
+Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
+As, through the garden gate, beneath the shade of the oak-trees,
+Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
+Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and the fire-flies
+Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
+Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
+Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,
+Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,
+As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."
+And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,
+Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel!  O my beloved!
+Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?
+Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?
+Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
+Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!
+Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
+Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!
+When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"
+Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded
+Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,
+Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
+"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;
+And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"
+
+  Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden
+Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses
+With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.
+"Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;
+"See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,
+And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming."
+"Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended
+Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.
+Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,
+Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,
+Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.
+Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,
+Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,
+Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain
+Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;
+Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,
+Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord,
+That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,
+Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+  FAR in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains
+Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.
+Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,
+Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon,
+Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.
+Eastward, with devious course, among the Windriver Mountains,
+Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;
+And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,
+Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,
+Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,
+Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.
+Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,
+Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
+Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
+Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;
+Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;
+Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;
+Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,
+Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails
+Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,
+Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
+By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
+Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;
+Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;
+And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
+Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside,
+And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
+Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.
+
+  Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,
+Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
+Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
+Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.
+Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire
+Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,
+When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.
+And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,
+Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana
+Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.
+
+  Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered
+Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
+Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
+She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
+From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,
+Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.
+Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome
+Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
+On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
+But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
+Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
+Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light
+Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,
+Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated
+Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
+All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
+Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
+Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
+Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,
+Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,
+She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
+Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
+Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror
+Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;
+Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
+But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
+Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
+Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.
+Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,
+Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,
+That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
+Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
+Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
+And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people.
+Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened
+To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her
+Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.
+Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
+Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor
+Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.
+With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches
+Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
+Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,
+Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
+As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
+It was no earthly fear.  A breath from the region of spirits
+Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment
+That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
+With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.
+
+  Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee
+Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western slope of these mountains
+Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.
+Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;
+Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."
+Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,
+"Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"
+Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,
+Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
+And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,
+Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.
+Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
+Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children.  A crucifix fastened
+High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines,
+Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
+This was their rural chapel.  Aloft, through the intricate arches
+Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
+Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
+Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,
+Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.
+But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
+Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
+Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers and bade them
+Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,
+Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,
+And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.
+There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear
+Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.
+Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:--
+"Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated
+On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,
+Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!"
+Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;
+But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes
+Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
+"Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn,
+When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."
+Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
+"Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
+So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,
+Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
+Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.
+
+  Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,--
+Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing
+Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,
+Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
+Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
+Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens
+Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
+But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield.
+Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.
+"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!
+Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
+See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;
+This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended
+Here on its fragile stock, to direct the traveller's journey
+Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
+Such in the soul of man is faith.  The blossoms of passion,
+Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
+But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
+Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
+Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe."
+
+  So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,--yet Gabriel came not;
+Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
+Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
+But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
+Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
+Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
+Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river.
+And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
+Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.
+When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,
+She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
+Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!
+
+  Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places
+Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;--
+Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,
+Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
+Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
+Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
+Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;
+Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
+Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty.
+Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
+Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead,
+Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon,
+As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+  IN that delightful land, which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
+Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle.
+Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
+There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
+And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
+As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
+There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
+Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
+There old René Leblanc had died; and when he departed,
+Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
+Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city,
+Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;
+And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,
+For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
+Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
+So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
+Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
+Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
+As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
+Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
+Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
+So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,
+Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway
+Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.
+Gabriel was not forgotten.  Within her heart was his image,
+Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
+Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
+Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
+Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
+He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
+Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
+This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
+So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
+Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
+Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
+Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
+Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
+Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
+Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,
+Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
+Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
+Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
+High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
+Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
+Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,
+Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.
+
+  Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
+Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
+Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
+And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
+Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
+So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
+Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence.
+Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;
+But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;--
+Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
+Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
+Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;--
+Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket
+Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
+Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you."
+Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy.  The dying
+Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
+Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
+Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
+Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
+Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
+Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.
+
+  Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
+Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
+Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden;
+And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
+That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
+Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind,
+Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,
+While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
+Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.
+Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;
+Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended";
+And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
+Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
+Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
+Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces,
+Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.
+Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
+Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
+Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
+And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
+Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
+Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time;
+Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.
+
+  Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
+Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
+Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,
+And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
+Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
+That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
+On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
+Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
+But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
+Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
+So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
+Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
+As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
+That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.
+Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
+Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
+Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
+Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
+Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
+Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
+"Gabriel!  O my beloved!" and died away into silence.
+Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
+Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
+Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
+As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
+Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
+Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
+Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
+Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
+Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
+Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
+Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
+As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
+
+  All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
+All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
+All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
+And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
+Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"
+
+
+  STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
+Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
+Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
+In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
+Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
+Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
+Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,
+Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
+Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!
+
+  Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches
+Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
+Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
+Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
+Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
+In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
+Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
+And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story.
+While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean
+Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Evangeline, by Henry W. Longfellow
+
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