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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+other parts of the world 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.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
+to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
+
+Title: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Release Date: September 3, 2003 [EBook #9080]
+[Most recently updated: April 11, 2020]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+The Children’s Own Longfellow
+
+Illustrated
+
+
+Contents
+
+The Wreck of the Hesperus
+ The Village Blacksmith
+ Evangeline
+
+Part the First
+
+ The Song of Hiawatha:
+
+Hiawatha’s Sailing
+
+Hiawatha’s Fishing
+
+ The Building of the Ship
+ The Castle-Builder
+ Paul Revere’s Ride
+ The Building of the Long Serpent
+
+
+Illustrations
+
+ The Wreck of the Hesperus
+He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
+Against the stinging blast
+
+ The Village Blacksmith
+And children coming home from school
+Look in at the open door
+
+ Evangeline
+Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her.
+When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
+
+ Hiawatha’s Fishing
+And he dropped his line of cedar
+Through the clear, transparent water
+
+ The Building of the Ship
+The sun shone on her golden hair,
+And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
+
+ The Castle-Builder
+A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+And towers that touch imaginary skies
+
+ Paul Revere’s Ride
+A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
+
+ The Building of the Long Serpent
+“Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+For a hundred year!”
+
+
+
+
+Publishers’ Note
+
+
+Longfellow has been fitly called the children’s poet. Many of his poems
+have from their very first appearance been favorites with youthful
+readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet best
+beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers that this
+volume, containing eight of the most popular of these poems,
+illustrated in color by some of the best known American artists of the
+present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands of young folks and
+their parents.
+
+
+
+
+
+The Wreck of the Hesperus
+
+[Illustration: The Wreck of the Hesperus]
+
+
+It was the schooner Hesperus,
+    That sailed the wintry sea;
+And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+    To bear him company.
+
+Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+    That ope in the month of May.
+
+The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+    His pipe was in his mouth,
+And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+    The smoke now West, now South.
+
+Then up and spake an old Sailòr,
+    Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+“I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+    For I fear a hurricane.
+
+“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+    And to-night no moon we see!”
+The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+    And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+Colder and louder blew the wind,
+    A gale from the Northeast,
+The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+    And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+Down came the storm, and smote amain
+    The vessel in its strength;
+She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
+    Then leaped her cable’s length.
+
+“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+    And do not tremble so;
+For I can weather the roughest gale
+    That ever wind did blow.”
+
+He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
+    Against the stinging blast;
+He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+    And bound her to the mast.
+
+“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+    Oh say, what may it be?”
+“’T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”—
+    And he steered for the open sea.
+
+“O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+    Oh say, what may it be?”
+“Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+    In such an angry sea!”
+
+“O father! I see a gleaming light,
+    Oh say, what may it be?”
+But the father answered never a word,
+    A frozen corpse was he.
+
+Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+    With his face turned to the skies,
+The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+    On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+    That saved she might be;
+And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+    On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+    Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe.
+
+And ever the fitful gusts between
+    A sound came from the land;
+It was the sound of the trampling surf
+    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+    She drifted a dreary wreck,
+And a whooping billow swept the crew
+    Like icicles from her deck.
+
+She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+    Looked soft as carded wool,
+But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+    Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+    With the masts went by the board;
+Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+    A fisherman stood aghast,
+To see the form of a maiden fair,
+    Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+    The salt tears in her eyes;
+And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+    On the billows fall and rise.
+
+Such was The Wreck of the Hesperus,
+    In the midnight and the snow!
+Christ save us all from a death like this,
+    On the reef of Norman’s Woe!
+
+
+
+
+The Village Blacksmith
+
+[Illustration: The Village Blacksmith]
+
+
+Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+    The village smithy stands;
+The smith, a mighty man is he,
+    With large and sinewy hands;
+And the muscles of his brawny arms
+    Are strong as iron bands.
+
+His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+    His face is like the tan;
+His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+    He earns whate’er he can,
+And looks the whole world in the face,
+    For he owes not any man.
+
+Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+    You can hear his bellows blow;
+You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+    With measured beat and slow,
+Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+    When the evening sun is low.
+
+And children coming home from school
+    Look in at the open door;
+They love to see the flaming forge,
+    And hear the bellows roar,
+And catch the burning sparks that fly
+    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+He goes on Sunday to the church,
+    And sits among his boys;
+He hears the parson pray and preach,
+    He hears his daughter’s voice,
+Singing in the village choir,
+    And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
+    Singing in Paradise!
+He needs must think of her once more,
+    How in the grave she lies;
+And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+    A tear out of his eyes.
+
+Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
+    Onward through life he goes;
+Each morning sees some task begin,
+    Each evening sees it close;
+Something attempted, something done,
+    Has earned a night’s repose.
+
+Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+    For the lesson thou hast taught!
+Thus at the flaming forge of life
+    Our fortunes must be wrought;
+Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+    Each burning deed and thought.
+
+
+
+
+Evangeline
+
+[Illustration: Evangeline]
+
+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 hemlock,
+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 doorway.
+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 sounds 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.
+Fair 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 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 thought 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 with 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 foes 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 tomorrow.
+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 a 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 manoeuvre,
+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 mists 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 was the evening passed. 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 Abraha’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,
+Stript of its 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 Dunquerque_,
+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 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,
+While 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 mournful 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 was 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 disconsolate 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 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 milk-maid.
+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 tearful eyes 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 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 awoke 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 sea-side,
+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.
+’T was 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.
+
+
+
+
+The Song of Hiawatha
+
+Hiawatha’s Sailing
+
+
+“Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
+Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
+Growing by the rushing river,
+Tall and stately in the valley!
+I a light canoe will build me,
+Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
+That shall float upon the river,
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily!
+
+“Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
+Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
+For the Summer-time is coming,
+And the sun is warm in heaven,
+And you need no white-skin wrapper!”
+
+Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
+In the solitary forest,
+By the rushing Taquamenaw,
+When the birds were singing gayly,
+In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
+And the sun, from sleep awaking,
+Started up and said, “Behold me!
+Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!”
+
+And the tree with all its branches
+Rustled in the breeze of morning,
+Saying, with a sigh of patience,
+“Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!”
+
+With his knife the tree he girdled;
+Just beneath its lowest branches,
+Just above the roots, he cut it,
+Till the sap came oozing outward;
+Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
+Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
+With a wooden wedge he raised it,
+Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
+
+“Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
+Of your strong and pliant branches,
+My canoe to make more steady,
+Make more strong and firm beneath me!”
+
+Through the summit of the Cedar
+Went a sound, a cry of horror,
+Went a murmur of resistance;
+But it whispered, bending downward,
+“Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!”
+
+Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
+Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
+Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
+Like two bended bows together.
+
+“Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
+Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
+My canoe to bind together,
+So to bind the ends together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!”
+
+And the Larch, with all its fibres,
+Shivered in the air of morning,
+Touched his forehead with its tassels,
+Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
+“Take them all, O Hiawatha!”
+
+From the earth he tore the fibres,
+Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
+Closely sewed the bark together,
+Bound it closely to the frame-work.
+
+“Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
+Of your balsam and your resin,
+So to close the seams together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!”
+
+And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
+Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
+Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
+Answered wailing, answered weeping,
+“Take my balm, O Hiawatha!”
+
+And he took the tears of balsam,
+Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
+Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
+Made each crevice safe from water.
+
+“Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
+All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
+I will make a necklace of them,
+Make a girdle for my beauty,
+And two stars to deck her bosom!”
+
+From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
+With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
+Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
+Saying with a drowsy murmur,
+Through the tangle of his whiskers,
+“Take my quills, O Hiawatha!”
+
+From the ground the quills he gathered,
+All the little shining arrows,
+Stained them red and blue and yellow,
+With the juice of roots and berries;
+Into his canoe he wrought them,
+Round its waist a shining girdle,
+Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
+On its breast two stars resplendent.
+
+Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
+In the valley, by the river,
+In the bosom of the forest;
+And the forest’s life was in it,
+All its mystery and its magic,
+All the lightness of the birch-tree,
+All the toughness of the cedar,
+All the larch’s supple sinews;
+And it floated on the river
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily.
+
+Paddles none had Hiawatha,
+Paddles none he had or needed,
+For his thoughts as paddles served him,
+And his wishes served to guide him;
+Swift or slow at will he glided,
+Veered to right or left at pleasure.
+
+Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
+To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Saying, “Help me clear this river
+Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.”
+
+Straight into the river Kwasind
+Plunged as if he were an otter,
+Dived as if he were a beaver,
+Stood up to his waist in water,
+To his arm-pits in the river,
+Swam and shouted in the river,
+Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
+With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
+With his feet the ooze and tangle.
+
+And thus sailed my Hiawatha
+Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
+Sailed through all its bends and windings,
+Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
+While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
+
+Up and down the river went they,
+In and out among its islands,
+Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
+Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
+Made its passage safe and certain,
+Made a pathway for the people,
+From its springs among the mountains,
+To the waters of Pauwating,
+To the bay of Taquamenau.
+
+[Illustration: Hiawatha’s Fishing]
+
+
+
+
+Hiawatha’s Fishing
+
+
+Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
+On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
+With his fishing-line of cedar,
+Of the twisted bark of cedar,
+Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
+Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
+In his birch canoe exulting
+All alone went Hiawatha.
+
+Through the clear, transparent water
+He could see the fishes swimming
+Far down in the depths below him;
+See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
+Like a sunbeam in the water,
+See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
+Like a spider on the bottom,
+On the white and sandy bottom.
+
+At the stern sat Hiawatha,
+With his fishing-line of cedar;
+In his plumes the breeze of morning
+Played as in the hemlock branches;
+On the bows, with tail erected,
+Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
+In his fur the breeze of morning
+Played as in the prairie grasses.
+
+On the white sand of the bottom
+Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
+Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
+Through his gills he breathed the water,
+With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
+With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
+
+There he lay in all his armor;
+On each side a shield to guard him,
+Plates of bone upon his forehead,
+Down his sides and back and shoulders
+Plates of bone with spines projecting!
+Painted was he with his war-paints,
+Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
+Spots of brown and spots of sable;
+And he lay there on the bottom,
+Fanning with his fins of purple,
+As above him Hiawatha
+In his birch canoe came sailing,
+With his fishing-line of cedar.
+
+“Take my bait,” cried Hiawatha,
+Down into the depths beneath him,
+“Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
+Come up from below the water,
+Let us see which is the stronger!”
+And he dropped his line of cedar
+Through the clear, transparent water,
+Waited vainly for an answer,
+Long sat waiting for an answer,
+And repeating loud and louder,
+“Take my bait, O King of Fishes!”
+
+Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Fanning slowly in the water,
+Looking up at Hiawatha,
+Listening to his call and clamor,
+His unnecessary tumult,
+Till he wearied of the shouting;
+And he said to the Kenozha,
+To the pike, the Maskenozha,
+“Take the bait of this rude fellow,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!”
+
+In his fingers Hiawatha
+Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
+As he drew it in, it tugged so
+That the birch canoe stood endwise,
+Like a birch log in the water,
+With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Perched and frisking on the summit.
+
+Full of scorn was Hiawatha
+When he saw the fish rise upward,
+Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
+Coming nearer, nearer to him,
+And he shouted through the water,
+“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are but the pike, Kenozha,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!”
+
+Reeling downward to the bottom
+Sank the pike in great confusion,
+And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
+Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+To the bream, with scales of crimson,
+“Take the bait of this great boaster,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!”
+
+Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
+Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+Seized the line of Hiawatha,
+Swung with all his weight upon it,
+Made a whirlpool in the water,
+Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
+Round and round in gurgling eddies,
+Till the circles in the water
+Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
+Till the water-flags and rushes
+Nodded on the distant margins.
+
+But when Hiawatha saw him
+Slowly rising through the water,
+Lifting up his disk refulgent,
+Loud he shouted in derision,
+“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!”
+
+Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
+Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
+Heard his challenge of defiance,
+The unnecessary tumult,
+Ringing far across the water.
+
+From the white sand of the bottom
+Up he rose with angry gesture,
+Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
+Clashing all his plates of armor,
+Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
+In his wrath he darted upward,
+Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
+Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
+Both canoe and Hiawatha.
+
+Down into that darksome cavern
+Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
+As a log on some black river
+Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
+Found himself in utter darkness,
+Groped about in helpless wonder,
+Till he felt a great heart beating,
+Throbbing in that utter darkness.
+
+And he smote it in his anger,
+With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
+Felt the mighty King of Fishes
+Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
+Heard the water gurgle round him
+As he leaped and staggered through it,
+Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
+
+Crosswise then did Hiawatha
+Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
+Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
+In the turmoil and confusion,
+Forth he might be hurled and perish.
+And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Frisked and chattered very gayly,
+Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
+Till the labor was completed.
+
+Then said Hiawatha to him,
+“O my little friend, the squirrel,
+Bravely have you toiled to help me;
+Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
+And the name which now he gives you;
+For hereafter and forever
+Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
+Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!”
+
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Gasped and quivered in the water,
+Then was still, and drifted landward
+Till he grated on the pebbles,
+Till the listening Hiawatha
+Heard him grate upon the margin,
+Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
+Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
+Lay there dead upon the margin.
+
+Then he heard a clang and flapping,
+As of many wings assembling,
+Heard a screaming and confusion,
+As of birds of prey contending,
+Saw a gleam of light above him,
+Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
+Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
+Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
+Gazing at him through the opening,
+Heard them saying to each other,
+“’T is our brother, Hiawatha!”
+
+And he shouted from below them,
+Cried exulting from the caverns:
+“O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
+I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
+Make the rifts a little larger,
+With your claws the openings widen,
+Set me free from this dark prison,
+And henceforward and forever
+Men shall speak of your achievements,
+Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
+Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!”
+
+And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
+Toiled with beak and claws together,
+Made the rifts and openings wider
+In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
+And from peril and from prison,
+From the body of the sturgeon,
+From the peril of the water,
+They released my Hiawatha.
+
+He was standing near his wigwam,
+On the margin of the water,
+And he called to old Nokomis,
+Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
+Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
+With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
+
+“I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
+Slain the King of Fishes!” said he;
+“Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
+Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
+Drive them not away, Nokomis,
+They have saved me from great peril
+In the body of the sturgeon,
+Wait until their meal is ended,
+Till their craws are full with feasting,
+Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
+To their nests among the marshes;
+Then bring all your pots and kettles,
+And make oil for us in Winter.”
+
+And she waited till the sun set,
+Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
+Rose above the tranquil water,
+Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
+From their banquet rose with clamor,
+And across the fiery sunset
+Winged their way to far-off islands,
+To their nests among the rushes.
+
+To his sleep went Hiawatha,
+And Nokomis to her labor,
+Toiling patient in the moonlight,
+Till the sun and moon changed places,
+Till the sky was red with sunrise,
+And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
+Came back from the reedy islands,
+Clamorous for their morning banquet.
+
+Three whole days and nights alternate
+Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
+Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
+Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
+Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
+And upon the sands lay nothing
+But the skeleton of Nahma.
+
+
+
+
+The Building of the Ship
+
+[Illustration: The Building of the Ship]
+
+
+“Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!”
+
+The merchant’s word
+Delighted the Master heard;
+For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+Giveth grace unto every Art.
+A quiet smile played round his lips,
+As the eddies and dimples of the tide
+Play round the bows of ships,
+That steadily at anchor ride.
+And with a voice that was full of glee,
+He answered, “Erelong we will launch
+A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
+As ever weathered a wintry sea!”
+And first with nicest skill and art,
+Perfect and finished in every part,
+A little model the Master wrought,
+Which should be to the larger plan
+What the child is to the man,
+Its counterpart in miniature;
+That with a hand more swift and sure
+The greater labor might be brought
+To answer to his inward thought.
+And as he labored, his mind ran o’er
+The various ships that were built of yore,
+And above them all, and strangest of all
+Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
+Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
+With bows and stern raised high in air,
+And balconies hanging here and there,
+And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
+And eight round towers, like those that frown
+From some old castle, looking down
+Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
+And he said with a smile, “Our ship, I wis,
+Shall be of another form than this!”
+It was of another form, indeed;
+Built for freight, and yet for speed,
+A beautiful and gallant craft;
+Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
+Pressing down upon sail and mast,
+Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
+Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
+With graceful curve and slow degrees,
+That she might be docile to the helm,
+And that the currents of parted seas,
+Closing behind, with mighty force,
+Might aid and not impede her course.
+
+In the ship-yard stood the Master,
+With the model of the vessel,
+That should laugh at all disaster,
+And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
+
+Covering many a rood of ground,
+Lay the timber piled around;
+Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
+And scattered here and there, with these,
+The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
+Brought from regions far away,
+From Pascagoula’s sunny bay,
+And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
+Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
+To note how many wheels of toil
+One thought, one word, can set in motion!
+There’s not a ship that sails the ocean,
+But every climate, every soil,
+Must bring its tribute, great or small,
+And help to build the wooden wall!
+
+The sun was rising o’er the sea,
+And long the level shadows lay,
+As if they, too, the beams would be
+Of some great, airy argosy,
+Framed and launched in a single day.
+That silent architect, the sun,
+Had hewn and laid them every one,
+Ere the work of man was yet begun.
+Beside the Master, when he spoke,
+A youth, against an anchor leaning,
+Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
+Only the long waves, as they broke
+In ripples on the pebbly beach,
+Interrupted the old man’s speech.
+
+Beautiful they were, in sooth,
+The old man and the fiery youth!
+The old man, in whose busy brain
+Many a ship that sailed the main
+Was modelled o’er and o’er again;—
+The fiery youth, who was to be
+The heir of his dexterity,
+The heir of his house, and his daughter’s hand,
+When he had built and launched from land
+What the elder head had planned.
+
+“Thus,” said he, “will we build this ship!
+Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
+And follow well this plan of mine.
+Choose the timbers with greatest care;
+Of all that is unsound beware;
+For only what is sound and strong
+To this vessel shall belong.
+Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
+Here together shall combine.
+A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
+And the UNION be her name!
+For the day that gives her to the sea
+Shall give my daughter unto thee!”
+
+The Master’s word
+Enraptured the young man heard;
+And as he turned his face aside,
+With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
+Standing before
+Her father’s door,
+He saw the form of his promised bride.
+The sun shone on her golden hair,
+And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
+With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
+Like a beauteous barge was she,
+Still at rest on the sandy beach,
+Just beyond the billow’s reach;
+But he
+Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
+
+Ah, how skilful grows the hand
+That obeyeth Love’s command!
+It is the heart, and not the brain,
+That to the highest doth attain,
+And he who followeth Love’s behest
+Far excelleth all the rest!
+Thus with the rising of the sun
+Was the noble task begun,
+And soon throughout the ship-yard’s bounds
+Were heard the intermingled sounds
+Of axes and of mallets, plied
+With vigorous arms on every side;
+Plied so deftly and so well,
+That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
+The keel of oak for a noble ship,
+Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
+Was lying ready, and stretched along
+The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
+Happy, thrice happy, every one
+Who sees his labor well begun,
+And not perplexed and multiplied,
+By idly waiting for time and tide!
+
+And when the hot, long day was o’er,
+The young man at the Master’s door
+Sat with the maiden calm and still,
+And within the porch, a little more
+Removed beyond the evening chill,
+The father sat, and told them tales
+Of wrecks in the great September gales,
+Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
+And ships that never came back again,
+The chance and change of a sailor’s life,
+Want and plenty, rest and strife,
+His roving fancy, like the wind,
+That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
+And the magic charm of foreign lands,
+With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
+Where the tumbling surf,
+O’er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
+Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
+As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
+And the trembling maiden held her breath
+At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
+With all its terror and mystery,
+The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
+That divides and yet unites mankind!
+And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
+From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
+The silent group in the twilight gloom,
+And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
+And for a moment one might mark
+What had been hidden by the dark,
+That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
+Tenderly, on the young man’s breast!
+
+Day by day the vessel grew,
+With timbers fashioned strong and true,
+Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
+Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
+A skeleton ship rose up to view!
+And around the bows and along the side
+The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
+Till after many a week, at length,
+Wonderful for form and strength,
+Sublime in its enormous bulk,
+Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
+And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
+Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
+Caldron, that glowed,
+And overflowed
+With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
+And amid the clamors
+Of clattering hammers,
+He who listened heard now and then
+The song of the Master and his men:—
+
+“Build me straight, O worthy Master,
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!”
+
+With oaken brace and copper band,
+Lay the rudder on the sand,
+That, like a thought, should have control
+Over the movement of the whole;
+And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
+Would reach down and grapple with the land,
+And immovable and fast
+Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
+And at the bows an image stood,
+By a cunning artist carved in wood,
+With robes of white, that far behind
+Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
+It was not shaped in a classic mould,
+Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
+Or Naiad rising from the water,
+But modelled from the Master’s daughter!
+On many a dreary and misty night,
+’T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
+Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
+Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
+The pilot of some phantom bark,
+Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
+By a path none other knows aright!
+
+Behold, at last,
+Each tall and tapering mast
+Is swung into its place;
+Shrouds and stays
+Holding it firm and fast!
+
+Long ago,
+In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
+When upon mountain and plain
+Lay the snow,
+They fell,—those lordly pines!
+Those grand, majestic pines!
+’Mid shouts and cheers
+The jaded steers,
+Panting beneath the goad,
+Dragged down the weary, winding road
+Those captive kings so straight and tall,
+To be shorn of their streaming hair,
+And naked and bare,
+To feel the stress and the strain
+Of the wind and the reeling main,
+Whose roar
+Would remind them forevermore
+Of their native forests they should not see again.
+
+And everywhere
+The slender, graceful spars
+Poise aloft in the air,
+And at the mast-head,
+White, blue, and red,
+A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
+Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
+In foreign harbors shall behold
+That flag unrolled,
+’T will be as a friendly hand
+Stretched out from his native land,
+Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
+
+All is finished! and at length
+Has come the bridal day
+Of beauty and of strength.
+To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+And o’er the bay,
+Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
+The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+The ocean old,
+Centuries old,
+Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+Paces restless to and fro,
+Up and down the sands of gold.
+His beating heart is not at rest;
+And far and wide,
+With ceaseless flow,
+His beard of snow
+Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+He waits impatient for his bride.
+There she stands,
+With her foot upon the sands,
+Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+In honor of her marriage day,
+Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+Round her like a veil descending,
+Ready to be
+The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+On the deck another bride
+Is standing by her lover’s side.
+Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+Broken by many a sudden fleck,
+Fall around them on the deck.
+
+The prayer is said,
+The service read,
+The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
+And in tears the good old Master
+Shakes the brown hand of his son,
+Kisses his daughter’s glowing cheek
+In silence, for he cannot speak,
+And ever faster
+Down his own the tears begin to run.
+The worthy pastor—
+The shepherd of that wandering flock,
+That has the ocean for its wold,
+That has the vessel for its fold,
+Leaping ever from rock to rock
+Spake, with accents mild and clear,
+Words of warning, words of cheer,
+But tedious to the bridegroo’s ear.
+He knew the chart
+Of the sailor’s heart,
+All its pleasures and its griefs,
+All its shallows and rocky reefs,
+All those secret currents, that flow
+With such resistless undertow,
+And lift and drift, with terrible force,
+The will from its moorings and its course.
+Therefore he spake, and thus said he:—
+“Like unto ships far off at sea,
+Outward or homeward bound, are we.
+Before, behind, and all around,
+Floats and swings the horizon’s bound,
+Seems at its distant rim to rise
+And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
+And then again to turn and sink,
+As if we could slide from its outer brink.
+Ah! it is not the sea,
+It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
+But ourselves
+That rock and rise
+With endless and uneasy motion,
+Now touching the very skies,
+Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
+Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
+Like the compass in its brazen ring,
+Ever level and ever true
+To the toil and the task we have to do,
+We shall sail securely, and safely reach
+The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
+The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
+Will be those of joy and not of fear!”
+
+Then the Master,
+With a gesture of command,
+Waved his hand;
+And at the word,
+Loud and sudden there was heard,
+All around them and below,
+The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+And see! she stirs!
+She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel
+The thrill of life along her keel,
+And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+With one exulting, joyous bound,
+She leaps into the ocean’s arms!
+
+And lo! from the assembled crowd
+There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+That to the ocean seemed to say,
+“Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+Take her to thy protecting arms,
+With all her youth and all her charms!”
+
+How beautiful she is! How fair
+She lies within those arms, that press
+Her form with many a soft caress
+Of tenderness and watchful care!
+Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+Sail forth into the sea of life,
+O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+And safe from all adversity
+Upon the bosom of that sea
+Thy comings and thy goings be!
+For gentleness and love and trust
+Prevail o’er angry wave and gust;
+And in the wreck of noble lives
+Something immortal still survives!
+
+Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+Humanity with all its fears,
+With all the hopes of future years,
+Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+We know what Master laid thy keel,
+What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+In what a forge and what a heat
+Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+’T is of the wave and not the rock;
+’T is but the flapping of the sail,
+And not a rent made by the gale!
+In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,
+In spite of false lights on the shore,
+Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,
+Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
+
+
+
+
+The Castle-Builder
+
+[Illustration: The Castle-Builder]
+
+
+A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
+    A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
+A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+    And towers that touch imaginary skies.
+
+A fearless rider on his father’s knee,
+    An eager listener unto stories told
+At the Round Table of the nursery,
+    Of heroes and adventures manifold.
+
+There will be other towers for thee to build;
+    There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
+There will be other legends, and all filled
+    With greater marvels and more glorified.
+
+Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
+    Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
+Listening to voices in the upper air,
+    Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+Paul Revere’s Ride
+
+[Illustration: Paul Revere’s Ride]
+
+
+Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
+On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
+Hardly a man is now alive
+Who remembers that famous day and year.
+
+He said to his friend, “If the British march
+By land or sea from the town to-night,
+Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
+Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
+One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
+And I on the opposite shore will be,
+Ready to ride and spread the alarm
+Through every Middlesex village and farm,
+For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
+
+Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar
+Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
+Just as the moon rose over the bay,
+Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
+The Somerset, British man-of-war;
+A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
+Across the moon like a prison bar,
+And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
+By its own reflection in the tide.
+
+Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
+Wanders and watches with eager ears,
+Till in the silence around him he hears
+The muster of men at the barrack door,
+The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
+And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
+Marching down to their boats on the shore.
+
+Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
+By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
+To the belfry-chamber overhead,
+And startled the pigeons from their perch
+On the sombre rafters, that round him made
+Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
+By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
+To the highest window in the wall,
+Where he paused to listen and look down
+A moment on the roofs of the town,
+And the moonlight flowing over all.
+
+Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
+In their night-encampment on the hill,
+Wrapped in silence so deep and still
+That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
+The watchful night-wind, as it went
+Creeping along from tent to tent,
+And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
+A moment only he feels the spell
+Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
+Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
+For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
+On a shadowy something far away,
+Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
+A line of black that bends and floats
+On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
+
+Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
+Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
+On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
+Now he patted his horse’s side,
+Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
+Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
+And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
+But mostly he watched with eager search
+The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
+As it rose above the graves on the hill,
+Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
+And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
+A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
+He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
+But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
+A second lamp in the belfry burns!
+A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
+A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
+And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
+Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
+That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
+The fate of a nation was riding that night;
+And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
+Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
+
+He has left the village and mounted the steep,
+And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
+Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
+And under the alders that skirt its edge,
+Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
+Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
+
+It was twelve by the village clock,
+When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
+He heard the crowing of the cock,
+And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
+And felt the damp of the river fog,
+That rises after the sun goes down.
+
+It was one by the village clock,
+When he galloped into Lexington.
+He saw the gilded weathercock
+Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
+And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
+Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
+As if they already stood aghast
+At the bloody work they would look upon.
+
+It was two by the village clock,
+When he came to the bridge in Concord town
+He heard the bleating of the flock,
+And the twitter of birds among the trees,
+And felt the breath of the morning breeze
+Blowing over the meadows brown.
+And one was safe and asleep in his bed
+Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
+Who that day would be lying dead,
+Pierced by a British musket-ball.
+
+You know the rest. In the books you have read.
+How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
+How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
+From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
+Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
+Then crossing the fields to emerge again
+Under the trees at the turn of the road,
+And only pausing to fire and load.
+
+So through the night rode Paul Revere;
+And so through the night went his cry of alarm
+To every Middlesex village and farm,—
+A cry of defiance and not of fear,
+A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
+And a word that shall echo forevermore!
+For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
+Through all our history, to the last,
+In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
+The people will waken and listen to hear
+The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
+And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
+
+
+
+
+The Building of the Long Serpent
+
+[Illustration: The Building of the Long Serpent]
+
+
+Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
+    In his ship-yard by the sea,
+Whistling, said, “It would bewilder
+Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
+    Any man but me!”
+
+Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
+    Built of old by Raud the Strong,
+And King Olaf had commanded
+He should build another Dragon,
+    Twice as large and long.
+
+Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
+    As he sat with half-closed eyes,
+And his head turned sideways, drafting
+That new vessel for King Olaf
+    Twice the Dragon’s size.
+
+Round him busily hewed and hammered
+    Mallet huge and heavy axe;
+Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
+Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
+    Spun the shining flax!
+
+All this tumult heard the master,—
+    It was music to his ear;
+Fancy whispered all the faster,
+“Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!”
+
+Workmen sweating at the forges
+    Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
+Like a warlock’s midnight orgies
+Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
+    With the boiling tar.
+
+Did the warlocks mingle in it,
+    Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
+Could you not be gone a minute
+But some mischief must be doing,
+    Turning bad to worse?
+
+’T was an ill wind that came wafting
+    From his homestead words of woe;
+To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
+Oft repeating to his workmen,
+    Build ye thus and so.
+
+After long delays returning
+    Came the master back by night;
+To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
+Hurried he, and did not leave it
+    Till the morning’s light.
+
+“Come and see my ship, my darling!”
+    On the morrow said the King;
+“Finished now from keel to carling;
+Never yet was seen in Norway
+    Such a wondrous thing!”
+
+In the ship-yard, idly talking,
+    At the ship the workmen stared:
+Some one, all their labor balking,
+Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
+    Not a plank was spared!
+
+“Death be to the evil-doer!”
+    With an oath King Olaf spoke!
+“But rewards to his pursuer!”
+And with wrath his face grew redder
+    Than his scarlet cloak.
+
+Straight the master-builder, smiling,
+    Answered thus the angry King:
+“Cease blaspheming and reviling,
+Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
+    Who has done this thing!”
+
+Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
+    Till the King, delighted, swore,
+With much lauding and much thanking,
+“Handsomer is now my Dragon
+    Than she was before!”
+
+Seventy ells and four extended
+    On the grass the vessel’s keel;
+High above it, gilt and splendid,
+Rose the figure-head ferocious
+    With its crest of steel.
+
+Then they launched her from the tressels,
+    In the ship-yard by the sea;
+She was the grandest of all vessels,
+Never ship was built in Norway
+    Half so fine as she!
+
+The Long Serpent was she christened,
+    ’Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
+They who to the Saga listened
+Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+other parts of the world 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.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
+to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
+
+Title: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Release Date: September 3, 2003 [EBook #9080]
+[Most recently updated: April 11, 2020]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+The Children’s Own Longfellow
+
+Illustrated
+
+
+Contents
+
+The Wreck of the Hesperus
+ The Village Blacksmith
+ Evangeline
+
+Part the First
+
+ The Song of Hiawatha:
+
+Hiawatha’s Sailing
+
+Hiawatha’s Fishing
+
+ The Building of the Ship
+ The Castle-Builder
+ Paul Revere’s Ride
+ The Building of the Long Serpent
+
+
+Illustrations
+
+ The Wreck of the Hesperus
+He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
+Against the stinging blast
+
+ The Village Blacksmith
+And children coming home from school
+Look in at the open door
+
+ Evangeline
+Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her.
+When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
+
+ Hiawatha’s Fishing
+And he dropped his line of cedar
+Through the clear, transparent water
+
+ The Building of the Ship
+The sun shone on her golden hair,
+And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
+
+ The Castle-Builder
+A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+And towers that touch imaginary skies
+
+ Paul Revere’s Ride
+A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
+
+ The Building of the Long Serpent
+“Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+For a hundred year!”
+
+
+
+
+Publishers’ Note
+
+
+Longfellow has been fitly called the children’s poet. Many of his poems
+have from their very first appearance been favorites with youthful
+readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet best
+beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers that this
+volume, containing eight of the most popular of these poems,
+illustrated in color by some of the best known American artists of the
+present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands of young folks and
+their parents.
+
+
+
+
+
+The Wreck of the Hesperus
+
+[Illustration: The Wreck of the Hesperus]
+
+
+It was the schooner Hesperus,
+    That sailed the wintry sea;
+And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+    To bear him company.
+
+Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+    That ope in the month of May.
+
+The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+    His pipe was in his mouth,
+And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+    The smoke now West, now South.
+
+Then up and spake an old Sailòr,
+    Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+“I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+    For I fear a hurricane.
+
+“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+    And to-night no moon we see!”
+The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+    And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+Colder and louder blew the wind,
+    A gale from the Northeast,
+The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+    And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+Down came the storm, and smote amain
+    The vessel in its strength;
+She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
+    Then leaped her cable’s length.
+
+“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+    And do not tremble so;
+For I can weather the roughest gale
+    That ever wind did blow.”
+
+He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
+    Against the stinging blast;
+He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+    And bound her to the mast.
+
+“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+    Oh say, what may it be?”
+“’T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”—
+    And he steered for the open sea.
+
+“O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+    Oh say, what may it be?”
+“Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+    In such an angry sea!”
+
+“O father! I see a gleaming light,
+    Oh say, what may it be?”
+But the father answered never a word,
+    A frozen corpse was he.
+
+Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+    With his face turned to the skies,
+The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+    On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+    That saved she might be;
+And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+    On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+    Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe.
+
+And ever the fitful gusts between
+    A sound came from the land;
+It was the sound of the trampling surf
+    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+    She drifted a dreary wreck,
+And a whooping billow swept the crew
+    Like icicles from her deck.
+
+She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+    Looked soft as carded wool,
+But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+    Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+    With the masts went by the board;
+Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+    A fisherman stood aghast,
+To see the form of a maiden fair,
+    Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+    The salt tears in her eyes;
+And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+    On the billows fall and rise.
+
+Such was The Wreck of the Hesperus,
+    In the midnight and the snow!
+Christ save us all from a death like this,
+    On the reef of Norman’s Woe!
+
+
+
+
+The Village Blacksmith
+
+[Illustration: The Village Blacksmith]
+
+
+Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+    The village smithy stands;
+The smith, a mighty man is he,
+    With large and sinewy hands;
+And the muscles of his brawny arms
+    Are strong as iron bands.
+
+His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+    His face is like the tan;
+His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+    He earns whate’er he can,
+And looks the whole world in the face,
+    For he owes not any man.
+
+Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+    You can hear his bellows blow;
+You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+    With measured beat and slow,
+Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+    When the evening sun is low.
+
+And children coming home from school
+    Look in at the open door;
+They love to see the flaming forge,
+    And hear the bellows roar,
+And catch the burning sparks that fly
+    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+He goes on Sunday to the church,
+    And sits among his boys;
+He hears the parson pray and preach,
+    He hears his daughter’s voice,
+Singing in the village choir,
+    And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
+    Singing in Paradise!
+He needs must think of her once more,
+    How in the grave she lies;
+And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+    A tear out of his eyes.
+
+Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
+    Onward through life he goes;
+Each morning sees some task begin,
+    Each evening sees it close;
+Something attempted, something done,
+    Has earned a night’s repose.
+
+Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+    For the lesson thou hast taught!
+Thus at the flaming forge of life
+    Our fortunes must be wrought;
+Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+    Each burning deed and thought.
+
+
+
+
+Evangeline
+
+[Illustration: Evangeline]
+
+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 hemlock,
+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 doorway.
+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 sounds 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.
+Fair 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 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 thought 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 with 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 foes 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 tomorrow.
+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 a 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 manoeuvre,
+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 mists 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 was the evening passed. 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 Abraha’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,
+Stript of its 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 Dunquerque_,
+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 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,
+While 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 mournful 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 was 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 disconsolate 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 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 milk-maid.
+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 tearful eyes 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 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 awoke 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 sea-side,
+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.
+’T was 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.
+
+
+
+
+The Song of Hiawatha
+
+Hiawatha’s Sailing
+
+
+“Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
+Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
+Growing by the rushing river,
+Tall and stately in the valley!
+I a light canoe will build me,
+Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
+That shall float upon the river,
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily!
+
+“Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
+Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
+For the Summer-time is coming,
+And the sun is warm in heaven,
+And you need no white-skin wrapper!”
+
+Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
+In the solitary forest,
+By the rushing Taquamenaw,
+When the birds were singing gayly,
+In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
+And the sun, from sleep awaking,
+Started up and said, “Behold me!
+Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!”
+
+And the tree with all its branches
+Rustled in the breeze of morning,
+Saying, with a sigh of patience,
+“Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!”
+
+With his knife the tree he girdled;
+Just beneath its lowest branches,
+Just above the roots, he cut it,
+Till the sap came oozing outward;
+Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
+Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
+With a wooden wedge he raised it,
+Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
+
+“Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
+Of your strong and pliant branches,
+My canoe to make more steady,
+Make more strong and firm beneath me!”
+
+Through the summit of the Cedar
+Went a sound, a cry of horror,
+Went a murmur of resistance;
+But it whispered, bending downward,
+“Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!”
+
+Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
+Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
+Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
+Like two bended bows together.
+
+“Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
+Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
+My canoe to bind together,
+So to bind the ends together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!”
+
+And the Larch, with all its fibres,
+Shivered in the air of morning,
+Touched his forehead with its tassels,
+Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
+“Take them all, O Hiawatha!”
+
+From the earth he tore the fibres,
+Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
+Closely sewed the bark together,
+Bound it closely to the frame-work.
+
+“Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
+Of your balsam and your resin,
+So to close the seams together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!”
+
+And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
+Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
+Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
+Answered wailing, answered weeping,
+“Take my balm, O Hiawatha!”
+
+And he took the tears of balsam,
+Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
+Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
+Made each crevice safe from water.
+
+“Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
+All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
+I will make a necklace of them,
+Make a girdle for my beauty,
+And two stars to deck her bosom!”
+
+From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
+With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
+Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
+Saying with a drowsy murmur,
+Through the tangle of his whiskers,
+“Take my quills, O Hiawatha!”
+
+From the ground the quills he gathered,
+All the little shining arrows,
+Stained them red and blue and yellow,
+With the juice of roots and berries;
+Into his canoe he wrought them,
+Round its waist a shining girdle,
+Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
+On its breast two stars resplendent.
+
+Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
+In the valley, by the river,
+In the bosom of the forest;
+And the forest’s life was in it,
+All its mystery and its magic,
+All the lightness of the birch-tree,
+All the toughness of the cedar,
+All the larch’s supple sinews;
+And it floated on the river
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily.
+
+Paddles none had Hiawatha,
+Paddles none he had or needed,
+For his thoughts as paddles served him,
+And his wishes served to guide him;
+Swift or slow at will he glided,
+Veered to right or left at pleasure.
+
+Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
+To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Saying, “Help me clear this river
+Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.”
+
+Straight into the river Kwasind
+Plunged as if he were an otter,
+Dived as if he were a beaver,
+Stood up to his waist in water,
+To his arm-pits in the river,
+Swam and shouted in the river,
+Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
+With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
+With his feet the ooze and tangle.
+
+And thus sailed my Hiawatha
+Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
+Sailed through all its bends and windings,
+Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
+While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
+
+Up and down the river went they,
+In and out among its islands,
+Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
+Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
+Made its passage safe and certain,
+Made a pathway for the people,
+From its springs among the mountains,
+To the waters of Pauwating,
+To the bay of Taquamenau.
+
+[Illustration: Hiawatha’s Fishing]
+
+
+
+
+Hiawatha’s Fishing
+
+
+Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
+On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
+With his fishing-line of cedar,
+Of the twisted bark of cedar,
+Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
+Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
+In his birch canoe exulting
+All alone went Hiawatha.
+
+Through the clear, transparent water
+He could see the fishes swimming
+Far down in the depths below him;
+See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
+Like a sunbeam in the water,
+See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
+Like a spider on the bottom,
+On the white and sandy bottom.
+
+At the stern sat Hiawatha,
+With his fishing-line of cedar;
+In his plumes the breeze of morning
+Played as in the hemlock branches;
+On the bows, with tail erected,
+Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
+In his fur the breeze of morning
+Played as in the prairie grasses.
+
+On the white sand of the bottom
+Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
+Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
+Through his gills he breathed the water,
+With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
+With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
+
+There he lay in all his armor;
+On each side a shield to guard him,
+Plates of bone upon his forehead,
+Down his sides and back and shoulders
+Plates of bone with spines projecting!
+Painted was he with his war-paints,
+Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
+Spots of brown and spots of sable;
+And he lay there on the bottom,
+Fanning with his fins of purple,
+As above him Hiawatha
+In his birch canoe came sailing,
+With his fishing-line of cedar.
+
+“Take my bait,” cried Hiawatha,
+Down into the depths beneath him,
+“Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
+Come up from below the water,
+Let us see which is the stronger!”
+And he dropped his line of cedar
+Through the clear, transparent water,
+Waited vainly for an answer,
+Long sat waiting for an answer,
+And repeating loud and louder,
+“Take my bait, O King of Fishes!”
+
+Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Fanning slowly in the water,
+Looking up at Hiawatha,
+Listening to his call and clamor,
+His unnecessary tumult,
+Till he wearied of the shouting;
+And he said to the Kenozha,
+To the pike, the Maskenozha,
+“Take the bait of this rude fellow,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!”
+
+In his fingers Hiawatha
+Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
+As he drew it in, it tugged so
+That the birch canoe stood endwise,
+Like a birch log in the water,
+With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Perched and frisking on the summit.
+
+Full of scorn was Hiawatha
+When he saw the fish rise upward,
+Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
+Coming nearer, nearer to him,
+And he shouted through the water,
+“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are but the pike, Kenozha,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!”
+
+Reeling downward to the bottom
+Sank the pike in great confusion,
+And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
+Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+To the bream, with scales of crimson,
+“Take the bait of this great boaster,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!”
+
+Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
+Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+Seized the line of Hiawatha,
+Swung with all his weight upon it,
+Made a whirlpool in the water,
+Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
+Round and round in gurgling eddies,
+Till the circles in the water
+Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
+Till the water-flags and rushes
+Nodded on the distant margins.
+
+But when Hiawatha saw him
+Slowly rising through the water,
+Lifting up his disk refulgent,
+Loud he shouted in derision,
+“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!”
+
+Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
+Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
+Heard his challenge of defiance,
+The unnecessary tumult,
+Ringing far across the water.
+
+From the white sand of the bottom
+Up he rose with angry gesture,
+Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
+Clashing all his plates of armor,
+Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
+In his wrath he darted upward,
+Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
+Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
+Both canoe and Hiawatha.
+
+Down into that darksome cavern
+Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
+As a log on some black river
+Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
+Found himself in utter darkness,
+Groped about in helpless wonder,
+Till he felt a great heart beating,
+Throbbing in that utter darkness.
+
+And he smote it in his anger,
+With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
+Felt the mighty King of Fishes
+Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
+Heard the water gurgle round him
+As he leaped and staggered through it,
+Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
+
+Crosswise then did Hiawatha
+Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
+Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
+In the turmoil and confusion,
+Forth he might be hurled and perish.
+And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Frisked and chattered very gayly,
+Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
+Till the labor was completed.
+
+Then said Hiawatha to him,
+“O my little friend, the squirrel,
+Bravely have you toiled to help me;
+Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
+And the name which now he gives you;
+For hereafter and forever
+Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
+Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!”
+
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Gasped and quivered in the water,
+Then was still, and drifted landward
+Till he grated on the pebbles,
+Till the listening Hiawatha
+Heard him grate upon the margin,
+Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
+Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
+Lay there dead upon the margin.
+
+Then he heard a clang and flapping,
+As of many wings assembling,
+Heard a screaming and confusion,
+As of birds of prey contending,
+Saw a gleam of light above him,
+Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
+Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
+Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
+Gazing at him through the opening,
+Heard them saying to each other,
+“’T is our brother, Hiawatha!”
+
+And he shouted from below them,
+Cried exulting from the caverns:
+“O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
+I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
+Make the rifts a little larger,
+With your claws the openings widen,
+Set me free from this dark prison,
+And henceforward and forever
+Men shall speak of your achievements,
+Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
+Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!”
+
+And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
+Toiled with beak and claws together,
+Made the rifts and openings wider
+In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
+And from peril and from prison,
+From the body of the sturgeon,
+From the peril of the water,
+They released my Hiawatha.
+
+He was standing near his wigwam,
+On the margin of the water,
+And he called to old Nokomis,
+Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
+Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
+With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
+
+“I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
+Slain the King of Fishes!” said he;
+“Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
+Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
+Drive them not away, Nokomis,
+They have saved me from great peril
+In the body of the sturgeon,
+Wait until their meal is ended,
+Till their craws are full with feasting,
+Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
+To their nests among the marshes;
+Then bring all your pots and kettles,
+And make oil for us in Winter.”
+
+And she waited till the sun set,
+Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
+Rose above the tranquil water,
+Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
+From their banquet rose with clamor,
+And across the fiery sunset
+Winged their way to far-off islands,
+To their nests among the rushes.
+
+To his sleep went Hiawatha,
+And Nokomis to her labor,
+Toiling patient in the moonlight,
+Till the sun and moon changed places,
+Till the sky was red with sunrise,
+And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
+Came back from the reedy islands,
+Clamorous for their morning banquet.
+
+Three whole days and nights alternate
+Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
+Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
+Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
+Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
+And upon the sands lay nothing
+But the skeleton of Nahma.
+
+
+
+
+The Building of the Ship
+
+[Illustration: The Building of the Ship]
+
+
+“Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!”
+
+The merchant’s word
+Delighted the Master heard;
+For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+Giveth grace unto every Art.
+A quiet smile played round his lips,
+As the eddies and dimples of the tide
+Play round the bows of ships,
+That steadily at anchor ride.
+And with a voice that was full of glee,
+He answered, “Erelong we will launch
+A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
+As ever weathered a wintry sea!”
+And first with nicest skill and art,
+Perfect and finished in every part,
+A little model the Master wrought,
+Which should be to the larger plan
+What the child is to the man,
+Its counterpart in miniature;
+That with a hand more swift and sure
+The greater labor might be brought
+To answer to his inward thought.
+And as he labored, his mind ran o’er
+The various ships that were built of yore,
+And above them all, and strangest of all
+Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
+Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
+With bows and stern raised high in air,
+And balconies hanging here and there,
+And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
+And eight round towers, like those that frown
+From some old castle, looking down
+Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
+And he said with a smile, “Our ship, I wis,
+Shall be of another form than this!”
+It was of another form, indeed;
+Built for freight, and yet for speed,
+A beautiful and gallant craft;
+Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
+Pressing down upon sail and mast,
+Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
+Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
+With graceful curve and slow degrees,
+That she might be docile to the helm,
+And that the currents of parted seas,
+Closing behind, with mighty force,
+Might aid and not impede her course.
+
+In the ship-yard stood the Master,
+With the model of the vessel,
+That should laugh at all disaster,
+And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
+
+Covering many a rood of ground,
+Lay the timber piled around;
+Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
+And scattered here and there, with these,
+The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
+Brought from regions far away,
+From Pascagoula’s sunny bay,
+And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
+Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
+To note how many wheels of toil
+One thought, one word, can set in motion!
+There’s not a ship that sails the ocean,
+But every climate, every soil,
+Must bring its tribute, great or small,
+And help to build the wooden wall!
+
+The sun was rising o’er the sea,
+And long the level shadows lay,
+As if they, too, the beams would be
+Of some great, airy argosy,
+Framed and launched in a single day.
+That silent architect, the sun,
+Had hewn and laid them every one,
+Ere the work of man was yet begun.
+Beside the Master, when he spoke,
+A youth, against an anchor leaning,
+Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
+Only the long waves, as they broke
+In ripples on the pebbly beach,
+Interrupted the old man’s speech.
+
+Beautiful they were, in sooth,
+The old man and the fiery youth!
+The old man, in whose busy brain
+Many a ship that sailed the main
+Was modelled o’er and o’er again;—
+The fiery youth, who was to be
+The heir of his dexterity,
+The heir of his house, and his daughter’s hand,
+When he had built and launched from land
+What the elder head had planned.
+
+“Thus,” said he, “will we build this ship!
+Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
+And follow well this plan of mine.
+Choose the timbers with greatest care;
+Of all that is unsound beware;
+For only what is sound and strong
+To this vessel shall belong.
+Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
+Here together shall combine.
+A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
+And the UNION be her name!
+For the day that gives her to the sea
+Shall give my daughter unto thee!”
+
+The Master’s word
+Enraptured the young man heard;
+And as he turned his face aside,
+With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
+Standing before
+Her father’s door,
+He saw the form of his promised bride.
+The sun shone on her golden hair,
+And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
+With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
+Like a beauteous barge was she,
+Still at rest on the sandy beach,
+Just beyond the billow’s reach;
+But he
+Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
+
+Ah, how skilful grows the hand
+That obeyeth Love’s command!
+It is the heart, and not the brain,
+That to the highest doth attain,
+And he who followeth Love’s behest
+Far excelleth all the rest!
+Thus with the rising of the sun
+Was the noble task begun,
+And soon throughout the ship-yard’s bounds
+Were heard the intermingled sounds
+Of axes and of mallets, plied
+With vigorous arms on every side;
+Plied so deftly and so well,
+That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
+The keel of oak for a noble ship,
+Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
+Was lying ready, and stretched along
+The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
+Happy, thrice happy, every one
+Who sees his labor well begun,
+And not perplexed and multiplied,
+By idly waiting for time and tide!
+
+And when the hot, long day was o’er,
+The young man at the Master’s door
+Sat with the maiden calm and still,
+And within the porch, a little more
+Removed beyond the evening chill,
+The father sat, and told them tales
+Of wrecks in the great September gales,
+Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
+And ships that never came back again,
+The chance and change of a sailor’s life,
+Want and plenty, rest and strife,
+His roving fancy, like the wind,
+That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
+And the magic charm of foreign lands,
+With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
+Where the tumbling surf,
+O’er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
+Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
+As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
+And the trembling maiden held her breath
+At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
+With all its terror and mystery,
+The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
+That divides and yet unites mankind!
+And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
+From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
+The silent group in the twilight gloom,
+And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
+And for a moment one might mark
+What had been hidden by the dark,
+That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
+Tenderly, on the young man’s breast!
+
+Day by day the vessel grew,
+With timbers fashioned strong and true,
+Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
+Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
+A skeleton ship rose up to view!
+And around the bows and along the side
+The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
+Till after many a week, at length,
+Wonderful for form and strength,
+Sublime in its enormous bulk,
+Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
+And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
+Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
+Caldron, that glowed,
+And overflowed
+With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
+And amid the clamors
+Of clattering hammers,
+He who listened heard now and then
+The song of the Master and his men:—
+
+“Build me straight, O worthy Master,
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!”
+
+With oaken brace and copper band,
+Lay the rudder on the sand,
+That, like a thought, should have control
+Over the movement of the whole;
+And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
+Would reach down and grapple with the land,
+And immovable and fast
+Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
+And at the bows an image stood,
+By a cunning artist carved in wood,
+With robes of white, that far behind
+Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
+It was not shaped in a classic mould,
+Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
+Or Naiad rising from the water,
+But modelled from the Master’s daughter!
+On many a dreary and misty night,
+’T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
+Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
+Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
+The pilot of some phantom bark,
+Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
+By a path none other knows aright!
+
+Behold, at last,
+Each tall and tapering mast
+Is swung into its place;
+Shrouds and stays
+Holding it firm and fast!
+
+Long ago,
+In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
+When upon mountain and plain
+Lay the snow,
+They fell,—those lordly pines!
+Those grand, majestic pines!
+’Mid shouts and cheers
+The jaded steers,
+Panting beneath the goad,
+Dragged down the weary, winding road
+Those captive kings so straight and tall,
+To be shorn of their streaming hair,
+And naked and bare,
+To feel the stress and the strain
+Of the wind and the reeling main,
+Whose roar
+Would remind them forevermore
+Of their native forests they should not see again.
+
+And everywhere
+The slender, graceful spars
+Poise aloft in the air,
+And at the mast-head,
+White, blue, and red,
+A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
+Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
+In foreign harbors shall behold
+That flag unrolled,
+’T will be as a friendly hand
+Stretched out from his native land,
+Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
+
+All is finished! and at length
+Has come the bridal day
+Of beauty and of strength.
+To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+And o’er the bay,
+Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
+The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+The ocean old,
+Centuries old,
+Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+Paces restless to and fro,
+Up and down the sands of gold.
+His beating heart is not at rest;
+And far and wide,
+With ceaseless flow,
+His beard of snow
+Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+He waits impatient for his bride.
+There she stands,
+With her foot upon the sands,
+Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+In honor of her marriage day,
+Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+Round her like a veil descending,
+Ready to be
+The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+On the deck another bride
+Is standing by her lover’s side.
+Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+Broken by many a sudden fleck,
+Fall around them on the deck.
+
+The prayer is said,
+The service read,
+The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
+And in tears the good old Master
+Shakes the brown hand of his son,
+Kisses his daughter’s glowing cheek
+In silence, for he cannot speak,
+And ever faster
+Down his own the tears begin to run.
+The worthy pastor—
+The shepherd of that wandering flock,
+That has the ocean for its wold,
+That has the vessel for its fold,
+Leaping ever from rock to rock
+Spake, with accents mild and clear,
+Words of warning, words of cheer,
+But tedious to the bridegroo’s ear.
+He knew the chart
+Of the sailor’s heart,
+All its pleasures and its griefs,
+All its shallows and rocky reefs,
+All those secret currents, that flow
+With such resistless undertow,
+And lift and drift, with terrible force,
+The will from its moorings and its course.
+Therefore he spake, and thus said he:—
+“Like unto ships far off at sea,
+Outward or homeward bound, are we.
+Before, behind, and all around,
+Floats and swings the horizon’s bound,
+Seems at its distant rim to rise
+And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
+And then again to turn and sink,
+As if we could slide from its outer brink.
+Ah! it is not the sea,
+It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
+But ourselves
+That rock and rise
+With endless and uneasy motion,
+Now touching the very skies,
+Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
+Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
+Like the compass in its brazen ring,
+Ever level and ever true
+To the toil and the task we have to do,
+We shall sail securely, and safely reach
+The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
+The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
+Will be those of joy and not of fear!”
+
+Then the Master,
+With a gesture of command,
+Waved his hand;
+And at the word,
+Loud and sudden there was heard,
+All around them and below,
+The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+And see! she stirs!
+She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel
+The thrill of life along her keel,
+And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+With one exulting, joyous bound,
+She leaps into the ocean’s arms!
+
+And lo! from the assembled crowd
+There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+That to the ocean seemed to say,
+“Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+Take her to thy protecting arms,
+With all her youth and all her charms!”
+
+How beautiful she is! How fair
+She lies within those arms, that press
+Her form with many a soft caress
+Of tenderness and watchful care!
+Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+Sail forth into the sea of life,
+O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+And safe from all adversity
+Upon the bosom of that sea
+Thy comings and thy goings be!
+For gentleness and love and trust
+Prevail o’er angry wave and gust;
+And in the wreck of noble lives
+Something immortal still survives!
+
+Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+Humanity with all its fears,
+With all the hopes of future years,
+Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+We know what Master laid thy keel,
+What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+In what a forge and what a heat
+Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+’T is of the wave and not the rock;
+’T is but the flapping of the sail,
+And not a rent made by the gale!
+In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,
+In spite of false lights on the shore,
+Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,
+Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
+
+
+
+
+The Castle-Builder
+
+[Illustration: The Castle-Builder]
+
+
+A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
+    A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
+A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+    And towers that touch imaginary skies.
+
+A fearless rider on his father’s knee,
+    An eager listener unto stories told
+At the Round Table of the nursery,
+    Of heroes and adventures manifold.
+
+There will be other towers for thee to build;
+    There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
+There will be other legends, and all filled
+    With greater marvels and more glorified.
+
+Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
+    Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
+Listening to voices in the upper air,
+    Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+Paul Revere’s Ride
+
+[Illustration: Paul Revere’s Ride]
+
+
+Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
+On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
+Hardly a man is now alive
+Who remembers that famous day and year.
+
+He said to his friend, “If the British march
+By land or sea from the town to-night,
+Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
+Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
+One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
+And I on the opposite shore will be,
+Ready to ride and spread the alarm
+Through every Middlesex village and farm,
+For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
+
+Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar
+Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
+Just as the moon rose over the bay,
+Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
+The Somerset, British man-of-war;
+A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
+Across the moon like a prison bar,
+And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
+By its own reflection in the tide.
+
+Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
+Wanders and watches with eager ears,
+Till in the silence around him he hears
+The muster of men at the barrack door,
+The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
+And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
+Marching down to their boats on the shore.
+
+Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
+By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
+To the belfry-chamber overhead,
+And startled the pigeons from their perch
+On the sombre rafters, that round him made
+Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
+By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
+To the highest window in the wall,
+Where he paused to listen and look down
+A moment on the roofs of the town,
+And the moonlight flowing over all.
+
+Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
+In their night-encampment on the hill,
+Wrapped in silence so deep and still
+That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
+The watchful night-wind, as it went
+Creeping along from tent to tent,
+And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
+A moment only he feels the spell
+Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
+Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
+For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
+On a shadowy something far away,
+Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
+A line of black that bends and floats
+On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
+
+Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
+Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
+On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
+Now he patted his horse’s side,
+Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
+Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
+And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
+But mostly he watched with eager search
+The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
+As it rose above the graves on the hill,
+Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
+And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
+A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
+He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
+But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
+A second lamp in the belfry burns!
+A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
+A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
+And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
+Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
+That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
+The fate of a nation was riding that night;
+And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
+Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
+
+He has left the village and mounted the steep,
+And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
+Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
+And under the alders that skirt its edge,
+Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
+Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
+
+It was twelve by the village clock,
+When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
+He heard the crowing of the cock,
+And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
+And felt the damp of the river fog,
+That rises after the sun goes down.
+
+It was one by the village clock,
+When he galloped into Lexington.
+He saw the gilded weathercock
+Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
+And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
+Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
+As if they already stood aghast
+At the bloody work they would look upon.
+
+It was two by the village clock,
+When he came to the bridge in Concord town
+He heard the bleating of the flock,
+And the twitter of birds among the trees,
+And felt the breath of the morning breeze
+Blowing over the meadows brown.
+And one was safe and asleep in his bed
+Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
+Who that day would be lying dead,
+Pierced by a British musket-ball.
+
+You know the rest. In the books you have read.
+How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
+How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
+From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
+Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
+Then crossing the fields to emerge again
+Under the trees at the turn of the road,
+And only pausing to fire and load.
+
+So through the night rode Paul Revere;
+And so through the night went his cry of alarm
+To every Middlesex village and farm,—
+A cry of defiance and not of fear,
+A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
+And a word that shall echo forevermore!
+For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
+Through all our history, to the last,
+In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
+The people will waken and listen to hear
+The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
+And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
+
+
+
+
+The Building of the Long Serpent
+
+[Illustration: The Building of the Long Serpent]
+
+
+Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
+    In his ship-yard by the sea,
+Whistling, said, “It would bewilder
+Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
+    Any man but me!”
+
+Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
+    Built of old by Raud the Strong,
+And King Olaf had commanded
+He should build another Dragon,
+    Twice as large and long.
+
+Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
+    As he sat with half-closed eyes,
+And his head turned sideways, drafting
+That new vessel for King Olaf
+    Twice the Dragon’s size.
+
+Round him busily hewed and hammered
+    Mallet huge and heavy axe;
+Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
+Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
+    Spun the shining flax!
+
+All this tumult heard the master,—
+    It was music to his ear;
+Fancy whispered all the faster,
+“Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!”
+
+Workmen sweating at the forges
+    Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
+Like a warlock’s midnight orgies
+Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
+    With the boiling tar.
+
+Did the warlocks mingle in it,
+    Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
+Could you not be gone a minute
+But some mischief must be doing,
+    Turning bad to worse?
+
+’T was an ill wind that came wafting
+    From his homestead words of woe;
+To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
+Oft repeating to his workmen,
+    Build ye thus and so.
+
+After long delays returning
+    Came the master back by night;
+To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
+Hurried he, and did not leave it
+    Till the morning’s light.
+
+“Come and see my ship, my darling!”
+    On the morrow said the King;
+“Finished now from keel to carling;
+Never yet was seen in Norway
+    Such a wondrous thing!”
+
+In the ship-yard, idly talking,
+    At the ship the workmen stared:
+Some one, all their labor balking,
+Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
+    Not a plank was spared!
+
+“Death be to the evil-doer!”
+    With an oath King Olaf spoke!
+“But rewards to his pursuer!”
+And with wrath his face grew redder
+    Than his scarlet cloak.
+
+Straight the master-builder, smiling,
+    Answered thus the angry King:
+“Cease blaspheming and reviling,
+Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
+    Who has done this thing!”
+
+Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
+    Till the King, delighted, swore,
+With much lauding and much thanking,
+“Handsomer is now my Dragon
+    Than she was before!”
+
+Seventy ells and four extended
+    On the grass the vessel’s keel;
+High above it, gilt and splendid,
+Rose the figure-head ferocious
+    With its crest of steel.
+
+Then they launched her from the tressels,
+    In the ship-yard by the sea;
+She was the grandest of all vessels,
+Never ship was built in Norway
+    Half so fine as she!
+
+The Long Serpent was she christened,
+    ’Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
+They who to the Saga listened
+Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow
+
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+<head>
+	<title>The Children's Own Longfellow</title>
+
+	<style type="text/css">
+<!--
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+<pre>
+
+Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. 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: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Posting Date: March 16, 2014 [EBook #9080]
+Release Date: October, 2005
+First Posted: September 3, 2003
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="titlepage">
+	<h1>The Children's Own Longfellow</h1>
+	<h2>Illustrated</h2>
+	<img src="images/hesperus-frontice.jpg"
+	     alt="The Wreck of the Hesperus"
+	     width="160"
+	     height="240"
+	     border="0" />
+	<h3>1908</h3>
+</div>
+
+<h4>Publishers' Note</h4>
+
+<blockquote>
+	Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his
+    poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with
+    youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet
+    best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers
+    that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these
+    poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American
+    artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands
+    of young folks and their parents.
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Contents"></a>
+<h4>Contents</h4>
+  <h5><a href="#Hesperus">The Wreck of the Hesperus</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Blacksmith">The Village Blacksmith</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Evangeline">Evangeline</a><br />
+  &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#First">Part the First</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Hiawatha">The Song of Hiawatha:</a><br />
+  &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#Sailing">Hiawatha's Sailing</a><br />
+  &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#Fishing">Hiawatha's Fishing</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Ship">The Building of the Ship</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Castle">The Castle-Builder</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Revere">Paul Revere's Ride</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Serpent">The Building of the Long Serpent</a></h5>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Illustrations"></a>
+<h4>Illustrations</h4>
+<table cellspacing="10" cellpadding="5">
+   <tr>
+     <td width="25%"><div align="center"><a href="images/hesperus.jpg"><img src="images/hesperus-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Wreck of the Hesperus" border="0" /></a></div>
+	 </td>
+     <td width = "75%"><h5>The Wreck of the Hesperus<br />
+       <i>S.M. Arthurs</i><br /><br />
+       He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;Against the stinging blast</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/blacksmith.jpg"><img src="images/blacksmith-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Village Blacksmith" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Village Blacksmith<br />
+       <i>Howard Smith</i><br /><br />
+       And children coming home from school<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;Look in at the open door</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/evangeline.jpg"><img src="images/evangeline-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Evangeline" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>Evangeline<br /><br />
+       Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br />
+       When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/hiawatha.jpg"><img src="images/hiawatha-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Hiawatha's Fishing" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>Hiawatha's Fishing<br /><br />
+       And he dropped his line of cedar<br />
+       Through the clear, transparent water</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/ship.jpg"><img src="images/ship-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Ship" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Building of the Ship<br />
+       <i>C. W. Ashley</i><br /><br />
+       The sun shone on her golden hair,<br />
+       And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+    <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/castle.jpg"><img src="images/castle-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Castle-Builder" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Castle-Builder<br />
+       <i>Olive Rush</i><br /><br />
+       A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;And towers that touch imaginary skies</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+      <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/revere.jpg"><img src="images/revere-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Paul Revere's Ride" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>Paul Revere's Ride<br />
+       <i>Howard Smith</i><br /><br />
+       A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door<br /></h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/serpent.jpg"><img src="images/serpent-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Long Serpent" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Building of the Long Serpent<br />
+       <br />
+       "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;For a hundred year!"</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Hesperus"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<strong>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</strong>
+<a href="#Blacksmith" title="Next&mdash;The Village Blacksmith"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/hesperus.jpg"><img src="images/hesperus-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Wreck of the Hesperus" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Wreck of the Hesperus</h4>
+
+
+<blockquote>
+	It was the schooner Hesperus,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That sailed the wintry sea;<br />
+	And the skipper had taken his little daughter,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;To bear him company.<br />
+	<br />
+	Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Her cheeks like the dawn of day,<br />
+	And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That ope in the month of May.<br />
+	<br />
+	The skipper he stood beside the helm,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;His pipe was in his mouth,<br />
+	And he watched how the veering flaw did blow<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The smoke now West, now South.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then up and spake an old Sail&ograve;r,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Had sailed to the Spanish Main,<br />
+	"I pray thee, put into yonder port,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For I fear a hurricane.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And to-night no moon we see!"<br />
+	The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And a scornful laugh laughed he.<br />
+	<br />
+	Colder and louder blew the wind,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A gale from the Northeast,<br />
+	The snow fell hissing in the brine,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And the billows frothed like yeast.<br />
+	<br />
+	Down came the storm, and smote amain<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The vessel in its strength;<br />
+	She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Then leaped her cable's length.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And do not tremble so;<br />
+	For I can weather the roughest gale<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That ever wind did blow."<br />
+	<br />
+	He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Against the stinging blast;<br />
+	He cut a rope from a broken spar,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And bound her to the mast.<br />
+	<br />
+	"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Oh say, what may it be?"<br />
+	"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"&mdash;<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And he steered for the open sea.<br />
+	<br />
+	"O father! I hear the sound of guns,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Oh say, what may it be?"<br />
+	"Some ship in distress, that cannot live<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In such an angry sea!"<br />
+	<br />
+	"O father! I see a gleaming light,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Oh say, what may it be?"<br />
+	But the father answered never a word,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A frozen corpse was he.<br />
+	<br />
+	Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With his face turned to the skies,<br />
+	The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On his fixed and glassy eyes.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That saved she might be;<br />
+	And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the Lake of Galilee.<br />
+	<br />
+	And fast through the midnight dark and drear,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Through the whistling sleet and snow,<br />
+	Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.<br />
+	<br />
+	And ever the fitful gusts between<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A sound came from the land;<br />
+	It was the sound of the trampling surf<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.<br />
+	<br />
+	The breakers were right beneath her bows,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;She drifted a dreary wreck,<br />
+	And a whooping billow swept the crew<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Like icicles from her deck.<br />
+	<br />
+	She struck where the white and fleecy waves<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Looked soft as carded wool,<br />
+	But the cruel rocks, they gored her side<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Like the horns of an angry bull.<br />
+	<br />
+	Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With the masts went by the board;<br />
+	Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Ho! ho! the breakers roared!<br />
+	<br />
+	At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A fisherman stood aghast,<br />
+	To see the form of a maiden fair,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Lashed close to a drifting mast.<br />
+	<br />
+	The salt sea was frozen on her breast,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The salt tears in her eyes;<br />
+	And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the billows fall and rise.<br />
+	<br />
+	Such was The Wreck of the Hesperus,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In the midnight and the snow!<br />
+	Christ save us all from a death like this,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the reef of Norman's Woe!<br />
+  </blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Blacksmith"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Hesperus" title="Previous&mdash;The Wreck of the Hesperus"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Evangeline" title="Next&mdash;Evangeline"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/blacksmith.jpg"><img src="images/blacksmith-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Village Blacksmith" border="0" /></a>
+
+
+<h4>The Village Blacksmith</h4>
+
+<blockquote>
+	Under a spreading chestnut-tree<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The village smithy stands;<br />
+	The smith, a mighty man is he,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With large and sinewy hands;<br />
+	And the muscles of his brawny arms<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Are strong as iron bands.<br />
+	<br />
+	His hair is crisp, and black, and long,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;His face is like the tan;<br />
+	His brow is wet with honest sweat,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;He earns whate'er he can,<br />
+	And looks the whole world in the face,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For he owes not any man.<br />
+	<br />
+	Week in, week out, from morn till night,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;You can hear his bellows blow;<br />
+	You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With measured beat and slow,<br />
+	Like a sexton ringing the village bell,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;When the evening sun is low.<br />
+	<br />
+	And children coming home from school<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Look in at the open door;<br />
+	They love to see the flaming forge,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And hear the bellows roar,<br />
+	And catch the burning sparks that fly<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Like chaff from a threshing-floor.<br />
+	<br />
+	He goes on Sunday to the church,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And sits among his boys;<br />
+	He hears the parson pray and preach,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;He hears his daughter's voice,<br />
+	Singing in the village choir,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And it makes his heart rejoice.<br />
+	<br />
+	It sounds to him like her mother's voice,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Singing in Paradise!<br />
+	He needs must think of her once more,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;How in the grave she lies;<br />
+	And with his hard, rough hand he wipes<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A tear out of his eyes.<br />
+	<br />
+	Toiling,&mdash;rejoicing,&mdash;sorrowing,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Onward through life he goes;<br />
+	Each morning sees some task begin,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Each evening sees it close;<br />
+	Something attempted, something done,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Has earned a night's repose.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For the lesson thou hast taught!<br />
+	Thus at the flaming forge of life<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Our fortunes must be wrought;<br />
+	Thus on its sounding anvil shaped<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Each burning deed and thought.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Evangeline"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Blacksmith" title="Previous&mdash;The Village Blacksmith"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#First" title="Next&mdash;Evangeline&mdash;Part the First"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/evangeline.jpg"><img src="images/evangeline-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Evangeline" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>Evangeline</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,<br />
+	Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,<br />
+	Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,<br />
+	Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.<br />
+	Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean<br />
+	Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.<br />
+	<br />
+	This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it<br />
+	Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?<br />
+	Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,&mdash;<br />
+	Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,<br />
+	Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?<br />
+	Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!<br />
+	Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October<br />
+	Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.<br />
+	Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pr&eacute;.<br />
+	<br />
+	Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,<br />
+	Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,<br />
+	List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest;<br />
+	List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="40%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="First"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Evangeline" title="Previous&mdash;Evangeline"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Hiawatha" title="Next&mdash;The Song of Hiawatha"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+
+<h5>Part the First</h5>
+<blockquote>
+	I<br />
+	<br />
+	In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,<br />
+	Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pr&eacute;<br />
+	Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,<br />
+	Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.<br />
+	Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,<br />
+	Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates<br />
+	Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.<br />
+	West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields<br />
+	Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward<br />
+	Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains<br />
+	Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic<br />
+	Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.<br />
+	There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.<br />
+	Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,<br />
+	Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.<br />
+	Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting<br />
+	Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.<br />
+	There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset<br />
+	Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,<br />
+	Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles<br />
+	Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden<br />
+	Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors<br />
+	Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.<br />
+	Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children<br />
+	Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.<br />
+	Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,<br />
+	Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.<br />
+	Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank<br />
+	Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry<br />
+	Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village<br />
+	Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,<br />
+	Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.<br />
+	Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,&mdash;<br />
+	Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from<br />
+	Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.<br />
+	Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;<br />
+	But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;<br />
+	There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.<br />
+	<br />
+	Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,<br />
+	Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pr&eacute;,<br />
+	Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,<br />
+	Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.<br />
+	Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;<br />
+	Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;<br />
+	White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.<br />
+	Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.<br />
+	Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,<br />
+	Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!<br />
+	Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.<br />
+	When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide<br />
+	Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.<br />
+	Fair was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret<br />
+	Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop<br />
+	Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,<br />
+	Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,<br />
+	Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,<br />
+	Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,<br />
+	Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.<br />
+	But a celestial brightness&mdash;a more ethereal beauty&mdash;<br />
+	Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,<br />
+	Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br />
+	When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.<br />
+	<br />
+	Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer<br />
+	Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady<br />
+	Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.<br />
+	Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath<br />
+	Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.<br />
+	Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,<br />
+	Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,<br />
+	Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.<br />
+	Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown<br />
+	Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.<br />
+	Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard.<br />
+	There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;<br />
+	There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,<br />
+	Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame<br />
+	Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.<br />
+	Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one<br />
+	Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,<br />
+	Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.<br />
+	There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates<br />
+	Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes<br />
+	Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pr&eacute;<br />
+	Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.<br />
+	Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal,<br />
+	Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;<br />
+	Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!<br />
+	Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,<br />
+	And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,<br />
+	Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;<br />
+	Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,<br />
+	Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered<br />
+	Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.<br />
+	But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;<br />
+	Gabriel Lajeunesse. the son of Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;<br />
+	For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,<br />
+	Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.<br />
+	Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood<br />
+	Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,<br />
+	Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters<br />
+	Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.<br />
+	But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,<br />
+	Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.<br />
+	There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him<br />
+	Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,<br />
+	Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel<br />
+	Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.<br />
+	Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness<br />
+	Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,<br />
+	Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,<br />
+	And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,<br />
+	Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.<br />
+	Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,<br />
+	Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.<br />
+	Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,<br />
+	Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow<br />
+	Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;<br />
+	Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!<br />
+	Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.<br />
+	He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,<br />
+	Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.<br />
+	She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.<br />
+	"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine<br />
+	Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;<br />
+	She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,<br />
+	Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children.<br />
+	<br />
+	II<br />
+	<br />
+	Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,<br />
+	And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.<br />
+	Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,<br />
+	Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.<br />
+	Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September<br />
+	Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.<br />
+	All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.<br />
+	Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey<br />
+	Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted<br />
+	Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.<br />
+	Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,<br />
+	Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!<br />
+	Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape<br />
+	Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.<br />
+	Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean<br />
+	Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.<br />
+	Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,<br />
+	Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,<br />
+	All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun<br />
+	Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;<br />
+	While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,<br />
+	Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest<br />
+	Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.<br />
+	<br />
+	Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.<br />
+	Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending<br />
+	Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.<br />
+	Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,<br />
+	And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.<br />
+	Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,<br />
+	Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,<br />
+	Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.<br />
+	Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,<br />
+	Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,<br />
+	Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,<br />
+	Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly<br />
+	Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;<br />
+	Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,<br />
+	When from the forest at night, through the starry silence the wolves howled.<br />
+	Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,<br />
+	Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.<br />
+	Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,<br />
+	While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,<br />
+	Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,<br />
+	Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.<br />
+	Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders<br />
+	Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence<br />
+	Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.<br />
+	Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,<br />
+	Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;<br />
+	Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,<br />
+	Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.<br />
+	<br />
+	In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer<br />
+	Sat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths<br />
+	Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,<br />
+	Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,<br />
+	Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.<br />
+	Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair<br />
+	Laughed in the flickering light; and the pewter plates on the dresser<br />
+	Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.<br />
+	Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,<br />
+	Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him<br />
+	Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.<br />
+	Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,<br />
+	Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.<br />
+	Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,<br />
+	While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,<br />
+	Followed the old man's song and united the fragments together.<br />
+	As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,<br />
+	Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,<br />
+	So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,<br />
+	Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.<br />
+	Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.<br />
+	"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,<br />
+	"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle<br />
+	Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;<br />
+	Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;<br />
+	Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling<br />
+	Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams<br />
+	Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."<br />
+	Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:&mdash;<br />
+	"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!<br />
+	Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with<br />
+	Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.<br />
+	Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."<br />
+	Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,<br />
+	And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:&mdash;<br />
+	"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors<br />
+	Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.<br />
+	What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded<br />
+	On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate<br />
+	Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time<br />
+	Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."<br />
+	Then made answer the farmer: "Perhaps some friendlier purpose<br />
+	Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England<br />
+	By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,<br />
+	And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."<br />
+	"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,<br />
+	Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:&mdash;<br />
+	"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau S&eacute;jour, nor Port Royal,<br />
+	Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,<br />
+	Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of tomorrow.<br />
+	Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;<br />
+	Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."<br />
+	Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:&mdash;<br />
+	"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,<br />
+	Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,<br />
+	Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.<br />
+	Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow<br />
+	Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.<br />
+	Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village<br />
+	Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,<br />
+	Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.<br />
+	Ren&eacute; Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.<br />
+	Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"<br />
+	As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,<br />
+	Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,<br />
+	And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.<br />
+	<br />
+	III<br />
+	<br />
+	Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,<br />
+	Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;<br />
+	Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung<br />
+	Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows<br />
+	Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.<br />
+	Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred<br />
+	Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.<br />
+	Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,<br />
+	Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.<br />
+	Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,<br />
+	Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.<br />
+	He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;<br />
+	For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,<br />
+	And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,<br />
+	And of the white L&eacute;tiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened<br />
+	Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;<br />
+	And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,<br />
+	And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,<br />
+	And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,<br />
+	With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.<br />
+	Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,<br />
+	"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,<br />
+	And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."<br />
+	Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,&mdash;<br />
+	"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;<br />
+	And what their errand may be I know not better than others.<br />
+	Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention<br />
+	Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"<br />
+	"God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;<br />
+	"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?<br />
+	Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"<br />
+	But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,&mdash;<br />
+	"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice<br />
+	Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,<br />
+	When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."<br />
+	This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it<br />
+	When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.<br />
+	"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,<br />
+	Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice<br />
+	Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,<br />
+	And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided<br />
+	Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.<br />
+	Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,<br />
+	Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.<br />
+	But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;<br />
+	Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty<br />
+	Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace<br />
+	That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion<br />
+	Fell on an orphan girl who lived as a maid in the household.<br />
+	She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,<br />
+	Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.<br />
+	As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,<br />
+	Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder<br />
+	Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand<br />
+	Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,<br />
+	And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,<br />
+	Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."<br />
+	Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith<br />
+	Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;<br />
+	All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors<br />
+	Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,<br />
+	Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed<br />
+	Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pr&eacute;;<br />
+	While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,<br />
+	Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,<br />
+	Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.<br />
+	Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,<br />
+	And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.<br />
+	Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table<br />
+	Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;<br />
+	And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,<br />
+	Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.<br />
+	Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,<br />
+	While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,<br />
+	Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.<br />
+	Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men<br />
+	Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre,<br />
+	Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.<br />
+	Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,<br />
+	Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise<br />
+	Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows.<br />
+	Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,<br />
+	Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry<br />
+	Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway<br />
+	Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.<br />
+	Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step<br />
+	Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.<br />
+	Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,<br />
+	And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.<br />
+	Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.<br />
+	Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,<br />
+	Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.<br />
+	Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.<br />
+	Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press<br />
+	Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded<br />
+	Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.<br />
+	This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,<br />
+	Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.<br />
+	Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight<br />
+	Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden<br />
+	Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.<br />
+	Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with<br />
+	Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!<br />
+	Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,<br />
+	Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.<br />
+	Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness<br />
+	Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight<br />
+	Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.<br />
+	And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass<br />
+	Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,<br />
+	As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!<br />
+	<br />
+	IV<br />
+	<br />
+	Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pr&eacute;.<br />
+	Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,<br />
+	Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.<br />
+	Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor<br />
+	Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.<br />
+	Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,<br />
+	Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.<br />
+	Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk<br />
+	Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,<br />
+	Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,<br />
+	Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.<br />
+	Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.<br />
+	Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors<br />
+	Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.<br />
+	Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;<br />
+	For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,<br />
+	All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.<br />
+	Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:<br />
+	For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;<br />
+	Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness<br />
+	Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.<br />
+	<br />
+	Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,<br />
+	Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.<br />
+	There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;<br />
+	There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.<br />
+	Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,<br />
+	Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.<br />
+	Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white<br />
+	Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler<br />
+	Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.<br />
+	Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,<br />
+	<em>Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres</em>, and <em>Le Carillon de Dunquerque</em>,<br />
+	And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.<br />
+	Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances<br />
+	Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;<br />
+	Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.<br />
+	Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!<br />
+	Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!<br />
+	<br />
+	So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous<br />
+	Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.<br />
+	Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,<br />
+	Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones<br />
+	Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.<br />
+	Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them<br />
+	Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor<br />
+	Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,&mdash;<br />
+	Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal<br />
+	Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.<br />
+	Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,<br />
+	Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.<br />
+	"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.<br />
+	Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,<br />
+	Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper<br />
+	Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.<br />
+	Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;<br />
+	Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds<br />
+	Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province<br />
+	Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there<br />
+	Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!<br />
+	Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"<br />
+	As, when the air is serene in sultry solstice of summer,<br />
+	Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones<br />
+	Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,<br />
+	Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,<br />
+	Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;<br />
+	So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.<br />
+	Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose<br />
+	Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,<br />
+	And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.<br />
+	Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations<br />
+	Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others<br />
+	Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.<br />
+	Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,&mdash;<br />
+	"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!<br />
+	Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"<br />
+	More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier<br />
+	Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.<br />
+	<br />
+	In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,<br />
+	Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician<br />
+	Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.<br />
+	Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence<br />
+	All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;<br />
+	Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful<br />
+	Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.<br />
+	"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?<br />
+	Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,<br />
+	Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!<br />
+	Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?<br />
+	Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?<br />
+	This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it<br />
+	Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?<br />
+	Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!<br />
+	See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!<br />
+	Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'<br />
+	Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,<br />
+	Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"<br />
+	Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people<br />
+	Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,<br />
+	While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar.<br />
+	Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,<br />
+	Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria<br />
+	Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,<br />
+	Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides<br />
+	Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.<br />
+	Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand<br />
+	Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,<br />
+	Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each<br />
+	Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.<br />
+	Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;<br />
+	There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;<br />
+	There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy,<br />
+	And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.<br />
+	Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset<br />
+	Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.<br />
+	Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,<br />
+	And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,&mdash;<br />
+	Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!<br />
+	Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,<br />
+	Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,<br />
+	As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,<br />
+	Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.<br />
+	Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors<br />
+	Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.<br />
+	Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.<br />
+	All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows<br />
+	Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,<br />
+	"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer<br />
+	Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.<br />
+	Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.<br />
+	Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted,<br />
+	Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.<br />
+	Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.<br />
+	In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall<br />
+	Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.<br />
+	Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder<br />
+	Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!<br />
+	Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;<br />
+	Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.<br />
+	<br />
+	V<br />
+	<br />
+	Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day<br />
+	Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.<br />
+	Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,<br />
+	Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,<br />
+	Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,<br />
+	Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,<br />
+	Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.<br />
+	Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,<br />
+	While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach<br />
+	Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.<br />
+	All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;<br />
+	All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.<br />
+	Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,<br />
+	Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.<br />
+	Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors<br />
+	Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession<br />
+	Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.<br />
+	Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,<br />
+	Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,<br />
+	So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended<br />
+	Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.<br />
+	Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,<br />
+	Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:&mdash;<br />
+	"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!<br />
+	Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"<br />
+	Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside<br />
+	Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them<br />
+	Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.<br />
+	<br />
+	Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,<br />
+	Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,&mdash;<br />
+	Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,<br />
+	And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.<br />
+	Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,<br />
+	Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,&mdash;<br />
+	"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another<br />
+	Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"<br />
+	Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father<br />
+	Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!<br />
+	Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep<br />
+	Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.<br />
+	But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,<br />
+	Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.<br />
+	Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.<br />
+	<br />
+	There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.<br />
+	Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion<br />
+	Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children<br />
+	Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.<br />
+	So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,<br />
+	While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.<br />
+	Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight<br />
+	Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean<br />
+	Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach<br />
+	Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.<br />
+	Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,<br />
+	Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,<br />
+	All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,<br />
+	Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.<br />
+	Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,<br />
+	Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving<br />
+	Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.<br />
+	Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;<br />
+	Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;<br />
+	Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,&mdash;<br />
+	Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.<br />
+	Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,<br />
+	Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.<br />
+	<br />
+	But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,<br />
+	Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.<br />
+	Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,<br />
+	Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.<br />
+	Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,<br />
+	Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,<br />
+	Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.<br />
+	Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,<br />
+	And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,<br />
+	Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,<br />
+	E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.<br />
+	Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,<br />
+	Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,<br />
+	But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.<br />
+	"<em>Benedicite</em>!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.<br />
+	More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents<br />
+	Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,<br />
+	Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.<br />
+	Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,<br />
+	Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them<br />
+	Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.<br />
+	Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.<br />
+	<br />
+	Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red<br />
+	Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon<br />
+	Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,<br />
+	Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.<br />
+	Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,<br />
+	Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.<br />
+	Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were<br />
+	Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.<br />
+	Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,<br />
+	Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops<br />
+	Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.<br />
+	<br />
+	These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.<br />
+	Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,<br />
+	"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pr&eacute;!"<br />
+	Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,<br />
+	Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle<br />
+	Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.<br />
+	Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments<br />
+	Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,<br />
+	When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,<br />
+	Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.<br />
+	Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses<br />
+	Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.<br />
+	<br />
+	Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden<br />
+	Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;<br />
+	And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,<br />
+	Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore<br />
+	Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.<br />
+	Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden<br />
+	Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.<br />
+	Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.<br />
+	Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;<br />
+	And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.<br />
+	Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,<br />
+	Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.<br />
+	Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,<br />
+	Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,<br />
+	And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.<br />
+	Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,&mdash;<br />
+	"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season<br />
+	Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,<br />
+	Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."<br />
+	Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,<br />
+	Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,<br />
+	But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pr&eacute;.<br />
+	And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,<br />
+	Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,<br />
+	Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.<br />
+	'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,<br />
+	With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.<br />
+	Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;<br />
+	And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,<br />
+	Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Hiawatha"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#First" title="Previous&mdash;Evangeline&mdash;Part the First"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Fishing" title="Next&mdash;Hiawatha's Fishing"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/hiawatha.jpg"><img src="images/hiawatha-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Song of Hiawatha" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Song of Hiawatha</h4>
+
+<hr width="40%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Sailing"></a>
+
+<h5>Hiawatha's Sailing</h5>
+<blockquote>
+	"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!<br />
+	Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!<br />
+	Growing by the rushing river,<br />
+	Tall and stately in the valley!<br />
+	I a light canoe will build me,<br />
+	Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,<br />
+	That shall float upon the river,<br />
+	Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,<br />
+	Like a yellow water-lily!<br />
+	<br />
+	"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!<br />
+	Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,<br />
+	For the Summer-time is coming,<br />
+	And the sun is warm in heaven,<br />
+	And you need no white-skin wrapper!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus aloud cried Hiawatha<br />
+	In the solitary forest,<br />
+	By the rushing Taquamenaw,<br />
+	When the birds were singing gayly,<br />
+	In the Moon of Leaves were singing,<br />
+	And the sun, from sleep awaking,<br />
+	Started up and said, "Behold me!<br />
+	Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the tree with all its branches<br />
+	Rustled in the breeze of morning,<br />
+	Saying, with a sigh of patience,<br />
+	"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	With his knife the tree he girdled;<br />
+	Just beneath its lowest branches,<br />
+	Just above the roots, he cut it,<br />
+	Till the sap came oozing outward;<br />
+	Down the trunk, from top to bottom,<br />
+	Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,<br />
+	With a wooden wedge he raised it,<br />
+	Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!<br />
+	Of your strong and pliant branches,<br />
+	My canoe to make more steady,<br />
+	Make more strong and firm beneath me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Through the summit of the Cedar<br />
+	Went a sound, a cry of horror,<br />
+	Went a murmur of resistance;<br />
+	But it whispered, bending downward,<br />
+	"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,<br />
+	Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,<br />
+	Like two bows he formed and shaped them,<br />
+	Like two bended bows together.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!<br />
+	Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!<br />
+	My canoe to bind together,<br />
+	So to bind the ends together<br />
+	That the water may not enter,<br />
+	That the river may not wet me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the Larch, with all its fibres,<br />
+	Shivered in the air of morning,<br />
+	Touched his forehead with its tassels,<br />
+	Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,<br />
+	"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	From the earth he tore the fibres,<br />
+	Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,<br />
+	Closely sewed the bark together,<br />
+	Bound it closely to the frame-work.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!<br />
+	Of your balsam and your resin,<br />
+	So to close the seams together<br />
+	That the water may not enter,<br />
+	That the river may not wet me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,<br />
+	Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,<br />
+	Rattled like a shore with pebbles,<br />
+	Answered wailing, answered weeping,<br />
+	"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And he took the tears of balsam,<br />
+	Took the resin of the Fir-tree,<br />
+	Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,<br />
+	Made each crevice safe from water.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!<br />
+	All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!<br />
+	I will make a necklace of them,<br />
+	Make a girdle for my beauty,<br />
+	And two stars to deck her bosom!"<br />
+	<br />
+	From a hollow tree the Hedgehog<br />
+	With his sleepy eyes looked at him,<br />
+	Shot his shining quills, like arrows,<br />
+	Saying with a drowsy murmur,<br />
+	Through the tangle of his whiskers,<br />
+	"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	From the ground the quills he gathered,<br />
+	All the little shining arrows,<br />
+	Stained them red and blue and yellow,<br />
+	With the juice of roots and berries;<br />
+	Into his canoe he wrought them,<br />
+	Round its waist a shining girdle,<br />
+	Round its bows a gleaming necklace,<br />
+	On its breast two stars resplendent.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus the Birch Canoe was builded<br />
+	In the valley, by the river,<br />
+	In the bosom of the forest;<br />
+	And the forest's life was in it,<br />
+	All its mystery and its magic,<br />
+	All the lightness of the birch-tree,<br />
+	All the toughness of the cedar,<br />
+	All the larch's supple sinews;<br />
+	And it floated on the river<br />
+	Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,<br />
+	Like a yellow water-lily.<br />
+	<br />
+	Paddles none had Hiawatha,<br />
+	Paddles none he had or needed,<br />
+	For his thoughts as paddles served him,<br />
+	And his wishes served to guide him;<br />
+	Swift or slow at will he glided,<br />
+	Veered to right or left at pleasure.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he called aloud to Kwasind,<br />
+	To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,<br />
+	Saying, "Help me clear this river<br />
+	Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."<br />
+	<br />
+	Straight into the river Kwasind<br />
+	Plunged as if he were an otter,<br />
+	Dived as if he were a beaver,<br />
+	Stood up to his waist in water,<br />
+	To his arm-pits in the river,<br />
+	Swam and shouted in the river,<br />
+	Tugged at sunken logs and branches,<br />
+	With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,<br />
+	With his feet the ooze and tangle.<br />
+	<br />
+	And thus sailed my Hiawatha<br />
+	Down the rushing Taquamenaw,<br />
+	Sailed through all its bends and windings,<br />
+	Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,<br />
+	While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,<br />
+	Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.<br />
+	<br />
+	Up and down the river went they,<br />
+	In and out among its islands,<br />
+	Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,<br />
+	Dragged the dead trees from its channel,<br />
+	Made its passage safe and certain,<br />
+	Made a pathway for the people,<br />
+	From its springs among the mountains,<br />
+	To the waters of Pauwating,<br />
+	To the bay of Taquamenau.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="40%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Fishing"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Hiawatha" title="Previous&mdash;The Song of Hiawatha"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Ship" title="Next&mdash;The Building of the Ship"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+
+<h5>Hiawatha's Fishing</h5>
+<blockquote>
+	Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,<br />
+	On the shining Big-Sea-Water,<br />
+	With his fishing-line of cedar,<br />
+	Of the twisted bark of cedar,<br />
+	Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,<br />
+	Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,<br />
+	In his birch canoe exulting<br />
+	All alone went Hiawatha.<br />
+	<br />
+	Through the clear, transparent water<br />
+	He could see the fishes swimming<br />
+	Far down in the depths below him;<br />
+	See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,<br />
+	Like a sunbeam in the water,<br />
+	See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,<br />
+	Like a spider on the bottom,<br />
+	On the white and sandy bottom.<br />
+	<br />
+	At the stern sat Hiawatha,<br />
+	With his fishing-line of cedar;<br />
+	In his plumes the breeze of morning<br />
+	Played as in the hemlock branches;<br />
+	On the bows, with tail erected,<br />
+	Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;<br />
+	In his fur the breeze of morning<br />
+	Played as in the prairie grasses.<br />
+	<br />
+	On the white sand of the bottom<br />
+	Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,<br />
+	Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;<br />
+	Through his gills he breathed the water,<br />
+	With his fins he fanned and winnowed,<br />
+	With his tail he swept the sand-floor.<br />
+	<br />
+	There he lay in all his armor;<br />
+	On each side a shield to guard him,<br />
+	Plates of bone upon his forehead,<br />
+	Down his sides and back and shoulders<br />
+	Plates of bone with spines projecting!<br />
+	Painted was he with his war-paints,<br />
+	Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.<br />
+	Spots of brown and spots of sable;<br />
+	And he lay there on the bottom,<br />
+	Fanning with his fins of purple,<br />
+	As above him Hiawatha<br />
+	In his birch canoe came sailing,<br />
+	With his fishing-line of cedar.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,<br />
+	Down into the depths beneath him,<br />
+	"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!<br />
+	Come up from below the water,<br />
+	Let us see which is the stronger!"<br />
+	And he dropped his line of cedar<br />
+	Through the clear, transparent water,<br />
+	Waited vainly for an answer,<br />
+	Long sat waiting for an answer,<br />
+	And repeating loud and louder,<br />
+	"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Fanning slowly in the water,<br />
+	Looking up at Hiawatha,<br />
+	Listening to his call and clamor,<br />
+	His unnecessary tumult,<br />
+	Till he wearied of the shouting;<br />
+	And he said to the Kenozha,<br />
+	To the pike, the Maskenozha,<br />
+	"Take the bait of this rude fellow,<br />
+	Break the line of Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	In his fingers Hiawatha<br />
+	Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;<br />
+	As he drew it in, it tugged so<br />
+	That the birch canoe stood endwise,<br />
+	Like a birch log in the water,<br />
+	With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,<br />
+	Perched and frisking on the summit.<br />
+	<br />
+	Full of scorn was Hiawatha<br />
+	When he saw the fish rise upward,<br />
+	Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,<br />
+	Coming nearer, nearer to him,<br />
+	And he shouted through the water,<br />
+	"Esa! esa! shame upon you!<br />
+	You are but the pike, Kenozha,<br />
+	You are not the fish I wanted,<br />
+	You are not the King of Fishes!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Reeling downward to the bottom<br />
+	Sank the pike in great confusion,<br />
+	And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	To the bream, with scales of crimson,<br />
+	"Take the bait of this great boaster,<br />
+	Break the line of Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,<br />
+	Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	Seized the line of Hiawatha,<br />
+	Swung with all his weight upon it,<br />
+	Made a whirlpool in the water,<br />
+	Whirled the birch canoe in circles,<br />
+	Round and round in gurgling eddies,<br />
+	Till the circles in the water<br />
+	Reached the far-off sandy beaches,<br />
+	Till the water-flags and rushes<br />
+	Nodded on the distant margins.<br />
+	<br />
+	But when Hiawatha saw him<br />
+	Slowly rising through the water,<br />
+	Lifting up his disk refulgent,<br />
+	Loud he shouted in derision,<br />
+	"Esa! esa! shame upon you!<br />
+	You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	You are not the fish I wanted,<br />
+	You are not the King of Fishes!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,<br />
+	Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	And again the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Heard the shout of Hiawatha,<br />
+	Heard his challenge of defiance,<br />
+	The unnecessary tumult,<br />
+	Ringing far across the water.<br />
+	<br />
+	From the white sand of the bottom<br />
+	Up he rose with angry gesture,<br />
+	Quivering in each nerve and fibre,<br />
+	Clashing all his plates of armor,<br />
+	Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;<br />
+	In his wrath he darted upward,<br />
+	Flashing leaped into the sunshine,<br />
+	Opened his great jaws, and swallowed<br />
+	Both canoe and Hiawatha.<br />
+	<br />
+	Down into that darksome cavern<br />
+	Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,<br />
+	As a log on some black river<br />
+	Shoots and plunges down the rapids,<br />
+	Found himself in utter darkness,<br />
+	Groped about in helpless wonder,<br />
+	Till he felt a great heart beating,<br />
+	Throbbing in that utter darkness.<br />
+	<br />
+	And he smote it in his anger,<br />
+	With his fist, the heart of Nahma.<br />
+	Felt the mighty King of Fishes<br />
+	Shudder through each nerve and fibre,<br />
+	Heard the water gurgle round him<br />
+	As he leaped and staggered through it,<br />
+	Sick at heart, and faint and weary.<br />
+	<br />
+	Crosswise then did Hiawatha<br />
+	Drag his birch-canoe for safety,<br />
+	Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,<br />
+	In the turmoil and confusion,<br />
+	Forth he might be hurled and perish.<br />
+	And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,<br />
+	Frisked and chattered very gayly,<br />
+	Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha<br />
+	Till the labor was completed.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then said Hiawatha to him,<br />
+	"O my little friend, the squirrel,<br />
+	Bravely have you toiled to help me;<br />
+	Take the thanks of Hiawatha,<br />
+	And the name which now he gives you;<br />
+	For hereafter and forever<br />
+	Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,<br />
+	Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And again the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Gasped and quivered in the water,<br />
+	Then was still, and drifted landward<br />
+	Till he grated on the pebbles,<br />
+	Till the listening Hiawatha<br />
+	Heard him grate upon the margin,<br />
+	Felt him strand upon the pebbles,<br />
+	Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,<br />
+	Lay there dead upon the margin.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he heard a clang and flapping,<br />
+	As of many wings assembling,<br />
+	Heard a screaming and confusion,<br />
+	As of birds of prey contending,<br />
+	Saw a gleam of light above him,<br />
+	Shining through the ribs of Nahma,<br />
+	Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,<br />
+	Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,<br />
+	Gazing at him through the opening,<br />
+	Heard them saying to each other,<br />
+	"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And he shouted from below them,<br />
+	Cried exulting from the caverns:<br />
+	"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!<br />
+	I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;<br />
+	Make the rifts a little larger,<br />
+	With your claws the openings widen,<br />
+	Set me free from this dark prison,<br />
+	And henceforward and forever<br />
+	Men shall speak of your achievements,<br />
+	Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,<br />
+	Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls<br />
+	Toiled with beak and claws together,<br />
+	Made the rifts and openings wider<br />
+	In the mighty ribs of Nahma,<br />
+	And from peril and from prison,<br />
+	From the body of the sturgeon,<br />
+	From the peril of the water,<br />
+	They released my Hiawatha.<br />
+	<br />
+	He was standing near his wigwam,<br />
+	On the margin of the water,<br />
+	And he called to old Nokomis,<br />
+	Called and beckoned to Nokomis,<br />
+	Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Lying lifeless on the pebbles,<br />
+	With the sea-gulls feeding on him.<br />
+	<br />
+	"I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,<br />
+	Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;<br />
+	"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,<br />
+	Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;<br />
+	Drive them not away, Nokomis,<br />
+	They have saved me from great peril<br />
+	In the body of the sturgeon,<br />
+	Wait until their meal is ended,<br />
+	Till their craws are full with feasting,<br />
+	Till they homeward fly, at sunset,<br />
+	To their nests among the marshes;<br />
+	Then bring all your pots and kettles,<br />
+	And make oil for us in Winter."<br />
+	<br />
+	And she waited till the sun set,<br />
+	Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,<br />
+	Rose above the tranquil water,<br />
+	Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,<br />
+	From their banquet rose with clamor,<br />
+	And across the fiery sunset<br />
+	Winged their way to far-off islands,<br />
+	To their nests among the rushes.<br />
+	<br />
+	To his sleep went Hiawatha,<br />
+	And Nokomis to her labor,<br />
+	Toiling patient in the moonlight,<br />
+	Till the sun and moon changed places,<br />
+	Till the sky was red with sunrise,<br />
+	And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,<br />
+	Came back from the reedy islands,<br />
+	Clamorous for their morning banquet.<br />
+	<br />
+	Three whole days and nights alternate<br />
+	Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls<br />
+	Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,<br />
+	Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,<br />
+	Till the sea-gulls came no longer,<br />
+	And upon the sands lay nothing<br />
+	But the skeleton of Nahma.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Ship"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Fishing" title="Previous&mdash;Hiawatha's Fishing"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Castle" title="Next&mdash;The Castle-Builder"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/ship.jpg"><img src="images/ship-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Ship" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Building of the Ship</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	"Build me straight, O worthy Master!<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,<br />
+	That shall laugh at all disaster,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"<br />
+	<br />
+	The merchant's word<br />
+	Delighted the Master heard;<br />
+	For his heart was in his work, and the heart<br />
+	Giveth grace unto every Art.<br />
+	A quiet smile played round his lips,<br />
+	As the eddies and dimples of the tide<br />
+	Play round the bows of ships,<br />
+	That steadily at anchor ride.<br />
+	And with a voice that was full of glee,<br />
+	He answered, "Erelong we will launch<br />
+	A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,<br />
+	As ever weathered a wintry sea!"<br />
+	And first with nicest skill and art,<br />
+	Perfect and finished in every part,<br />
+	A little model the Master wrought,<br />
+	Which should be to the larger plan<br />
+	What the child is to the man,<br />
+	Its counterpart in miniature;<br />
+	That with a hand more swift and sure<br />
+	The greater labor might be brought<br />
+	To answer to his inward thought.<br />
+	And as he labored, his mind ran o'er<br />
+	The various ships that were built of yore,<br />
+	And above them all, and strangest of all<br />
+	Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,<br />
+	Whose picture was hanging on the wall,<br />
+	With bows and stern raised high in air,<br />
+	And balconies hanging here and there,<br />
+	And signal lanterns and flags afloat,<br />
+	And eight round towers, like those that frown<br />
+	From some old castle, looking down<br />
+	Upon the drawbridge and the moat.<br />
+	And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,<br />
+	Shall be of another form than this!"<br />
+	It was of another form, indeed;<br />
+	Built for freight, and yet for speed,<br />
+	A beautiful and gallant craft;<br />
+	Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,<br />
+	Pressing down upon sail and mast,<br />
+	Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;<br />
+	Broad in the beam, but sloping aft<br />
+	With graceful curve and slow degrees,<br />
+	That she might be docile to the helm,<br />
+	And that the currents of parted seas,<br />
+	Closing behind, with mighty force,<br />
+	Might aid and not impede her course.<br />
+	<br />
+	In the ship-yard stood the Master,<br />
+	With the model of the vessel,<br />
+	That should laugh at all disaster,<br />
+	And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!<br />
+	<br />
+	Covering many a rood of ground,<br />
+	Lay the timber piled around;<br />
+	Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,<br />
+	And scattered here and there, with these,<br />
+	The knarred and crooked cedar knees;<br />
+	Brought from regions far away,<br />
+	From Pascagoula's sunny bay,<br />
+	And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!<br />
+	Ah! what a wondrous thing it is<br />
+	To note how many wheels of toil<br />
+	One thought, one word, can set in motion!<br />
+	There's not a ship that sails the ocean,<br />
+	But every climate, every soil,<br />
+	Must bring its tribute, great or small,<br />
+	And help to build the wooden wall!<br />
+	<br />
+	The sun was rising o'er the sea,<br />
+	And long the level shadows lay,<br />
+	As if they, too, the beams would be<br />
+	Of some great, airy argosy,<br />
+	Framed and launched in a single day.<br />
+	That silent architect, the sun,<br />
+	Had hewn and laid them every one,<br />
+	Ere the work of man was yet begun.<br />
+	Beside the Master, when he spoke,<br />
+	A youth, against an anchor leaning,<br />
+	Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.<br />
+	Only the long waves, as they broke<br />
+	In ripples on the pebbly beach,<br />
+	Interrupted the old man's speech.<br />
+	<br />
+	Beautiful they were, in sooth,<br />
+	The old man and the fiery youth!<br />
+	The old man, in whose busy brain<br />
+	Many a ship that sailed the main<br />
+	Was modelled o'er and o'er again;&mdash;<br />
+	The fiery youth, who was to be<br />
+	The heir of his dexterity,<br />
+	The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,<br />
+	When he had built and launched from land<br />
+	What the elder head had planned.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!<br />
+	Lay square the blocks upon the slip,<br />
+	And follow well this plan of mine.<br />
+	Choose the timbers with greatest care;<br />
+	Of all that is unsound beware;<br />
+	For only what is sound and strong<br />
+	To this vessel shall belong.<br />
+	Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine<br />
+	Here together shall combine.<br />
+	A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,<br />
+	And the UNION be her name!<br />
+	For the day that gives her to the sea<br />
+	Shall give my daughter unto thee!"<br />
+	<br />
+	The Master's word<br />
+	Enraptured the young man heard;<br />
+	And as he turned his face aside,<br />
+	With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,<br />
+	Standing before<br />
+	Her father's door,<br />
+	He saw the form of his promised bride.<br />
+	The sun shone on her golden hair,<br />
+	And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,<br />
+	With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.<br />
+	Like a beauteous barge was she,<br />
+	Still at rest on the sandy beach,<br />
+	Just beyond the billow's reach;<br />
+	But he<br />
+	Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!<br />
+	<br />
+	Ah, how skilful grows the hand<br />
+	That obeyeth Love's command!<br />
+	It is the heart, and not the brain,<br />
+	That to the highest doth attain,<br />
+	And he who followeth Love's behest<br />
+	Far excelleth all the rest!<br />
+	Thus with the rising of the sun<br />
+	Was the noble task begun,<br />
+	And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds<br />
+	Were heard the intermingled sounds<br />
+	Of axes and of mallets, plied<br />
+	With vigorous arms on every side;<br />
+	Plied so deftly and so well,<br />
+	That, ere the shadows of evening fell,<br />
+	The keel of oak for a noble ship,<br />
+	Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,<br />
+	Was lying ready, and stretched along<br />
+	The blocks, well placed upon the slip.<br />
+	Happy, thrice happy, every one<br />
+	Who sees his labor well begun,<br />
+	And not perplexed and multiplied,<br />
+	By idly waiting for time and tide!<br />
+	<br />
+	And when the hot, long day was o'er,<br />
+	The young man at the Master's door<br />
+	Sat with the maiden calm and still,<br />
+	And within the porch, a little more<br />
+	Removed beyond the evening chill,<br />
+	The father sat, and told them tales<br />
+	Of wrecks in the great September gales,<br />
+	Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,<br />
+	And ships that never came back again,<br />
+	The chance and change of a sailor's life,<br />
+	Want and plenty, rest and strife,<br />
+	His roving fancy, like the wind,<br />
+	That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,<br />
+	And the magic charm of foreign lands,<br />
+	With shadows of palms, and shining sands,<br />
+	Where the tumbling surf,<br />
+	O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,<br />
+	Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,<br />
+	As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.<br />
+	And the trembling maiden held her breath<br />
+	At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,<br />
+	With all its terror and mystery,<br />
+	The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,<br />
+	That divides and yet unites mankind!<br />
+	And whenever the old man paused, a gleam<br />
+	From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume<br />
+	The silent group in the twilight gloom,<br />
+	And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;<br />
+	And for a moment one might mark<br />
+	What had been hidden by the dark,<br />
+	That the head of the maiden lay at rest,<br />
+	Tenderly, on the young man's breast!<br />
+	<br />
+	Day by day the vessel grew,<br />
+	With timbers fashioned strong and true,<br />
+	Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,<br />
+	Till, framed with perfect symmetry,<br />
+	A skeleton ship rose up to view!<br />
+	And around the bows and along the side<br />
+	The heavy hammers and mallets plied,<br />
+	Till after many a week, at length,<br />
+	Wonderful for form and strength,<br />
+	Sublime in its enormous bulk,<br />
+	Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!<br />
+	And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,<br />
+	Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething<br />
+	Caldron, that glowed,<br />
+	And overflowed<br />
+	With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.<br />
+	And amid the clamors<br />
+	Of clattering hammers,<br />
+	He who listened heard now and then<br />
+	The song of the Master and his men:&mdash;<br />
+	<br />
+	"Build me straight, O worthy Master,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,<br />
+	That shall laugh at all disaster,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"<br />
+	<br />
+	With oaken brace and copper band,<br />
+	Lay the rudder on the sand,<br />
+	That, like a thought, should have control<br />
+	Over the movement of the whole;<br />
+	And near it the anchor, whose giant hand<br />
+	Would reach down and grapple with the land,<br />
+	And immovable and fast<br />
+	Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!<br />
+	And at the bows an image stood,<br />
+	By a cunning artist carved in wood,<br />
+	With robes of white, that far behind<br />
+	Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.<br />
+	It was not shaped in a classic mould,<br />
+	Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,<br />
+	Or Naiad rising from the water,<br />
+	But modelled from the Master's daughter!<br />
+	On many a dreary and misty night,<br />
+	'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,<br />
+	Speeding along through the rain and the dark,<br />
+	Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,<br />
+	The pilot of some phantom bark,<br />
+	Guiding the vessel, in its flight,<br />
+	By a path none other knows aright!<br />
+	<br />
+	Behold, at last,<br />
+	Each tall and tapering mast<br />
+	Is swung into its place;<br />
+	Shrouds and stays<br />
+	Holding it firm and fast!<br />
+	<br />
+	Long ago,<br />
+	In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,<br />
+	When upon mountain and plain<br />
+	Lay the snow,<br />
+	They fell,&mdash;those lordly pines!<br />
+	Those grand, majestic pines!<br />
+	'Mid shouts and cheers<br />
+	The jaded steers,<br />
+	Panting beneath the goad,<br />
+	Dragged down the weary, winding road<br />
+	Those captive kings so straight and tall,<br />
+	To be shorn of their streaming hair,<br />
+	And naked and bare,<br />
+	To feel the stress and the strain<br />
+	Of the wind and the reeling main,<br />
+	Whose roar<br />
+	Would remind them forevermore<br />
+	Of their native forests they should not see again.<br />
+	<br />
+	And everywhere<br />
+	The slender, graceful spars<br />
+	Poise aloft in the air,<br />
+	And at the mast-head,<br />
+	White, blue, and red,<br />
+	A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.<br />
+	Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,<br />
+	In foreign harbors shall behold<br />
+	That flag unrolled,<br />
+	'T will be as a friendly hand<br />
+	Stretched out from his native land,<br />
+	Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!<br />
+	<br />
+	All is finished! and at length<br />
+	Has come the bridal day<br />
+	Of beauty and of strength.<br />
+	To-day the vessel shall be launched!<br />
+	With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,<br />
+	And o'er the bay,<br />
+	Slowly, in all its splendors dight,<br />
+	The great sun rises to behold the sight.<br />
+	<br />
+	The ocean old,<br />
+	Centuries old,<br />
+	Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,<br />
+	Paces restless to and fro,<br />
+	Up and down the sands of gold.<br />
+	His beating heart is not at rest;<br />
+	And far and wide,<br />
+	With ceaseless flow,<br />
+	His beard of snow<br />
+	Heaves with the heaving of his breast.<br />
+	He waits impatient for his bride.<br />
+	There she stands,<br />
+	With her foot upon the sands,<br />
+	Decked with flags and streamers gay,<br />
+	In honor of her marriage day,<br />
+	Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,<br />
+	Round her like a veil descending,<br />
+	Ready to be<br />
+	The bride of the gray old sea.<br />
+	<br />
+	On the deck another bride<br />
+	Is standing by her lover's side.<br />
+	Shadows from the flags and shrouds,<br />
+	Like the shadows cast by clouds,<br />
+	Broken by many a sudden fleck,<br />
+	Fall around them on the deck.<br />
+	<br />
+	The prayer is said,<br />
+	The service read,<br />
+	The joyous bridegroom bows his head;<br />
+	And in tears the good old Master<br />
+	Shakes the brown hand of his son,<br />
+	Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek<br />
+	In silence, for he cannot speak,<br />
+	And ever faster<br />
+	Down his own the tears begin to run.<br />
+	The worthy pastor&mdash;<br />
+	The shepherd of that wandering flock,<br />
+	That has the ocean for its wold,<br />
+	That has the vessel for its fold,<br />
+	Leaping ever from rock to rock<br />
+	Spake, with accents mild and clear,<br />
+	Words of warning, words of cheer,<br />
+	But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.<br />
+	He knew the chart<br />
+	Of the sailor's heart,<br />
+	All its pleasures and its griefs,<br />
+	All its shallows and rocky reefs,<br />
+	All those secret currents, that flow<br />
+	With such resistless undertow,<br />
+	And lift and drift, with terrible force,<br />
+	The will from its moorings and its course.<br />
+	Therefore he spake, and thus said he:&mdash;<br />
+	"Like unto ships far off at sea,<br />
+	Outward or homeward bound, are we.<br />
+	Before, behind, and all around,<br />
+	Floats and swings the horizon's bound,<br />
+	Seems at its distant rim to rise<br />
+	And climb the crystal wall of the skies,<br />
+	And then again to turn and sink,<br />
+	As if we could slide from its outer brink.<br />
+	Ah! it is not the sea,<br />
+	It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,<br />
+	But ourselves<br />
+	That rock and rise<br />
+	With endless and uneasy motion,<br />
+	Now touching the very skies,<br />
+	Now sinking into the depths of ocean.<br />
+	Ah! if our souls but poise and swing<br />
+	Like the compass in its brazen ring,<br />
+	Ever level and ever true<br />
+	To the toil and the task we have to do,<br />
+	We shall sail securely, and safely reach<br />
+	The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach<br />
+	The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,<br />
+	Will be those of joy and not of fear!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Then the Master,<br />
+	With a gesture of command,<br />
+	Waved his hand;<br />
+	And at the word,<br />
+	Loud and sudden there was heard,<br />
+	All around them and below,<br />
+	The sound of hammers, blow on blow,<br />
+	Knocking away the shores and spurs.<br />
+	And see! she stirs!<br />
+	She starts,&mdash;she moves,&mdash;she seems to feel<br />
+	The thrill of life along her keel,<br />
+	And, spurning with her foot the ground,<br />
+	With one exulting, joyous bound,<br />
+	She leaps into the ocean's arms!<br />
+	<br />
+	And lo! from the assembled crowd<br />
+	There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,<br />
+	That to the ocean seemed to say,<br />
+	"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,<br />
+	Take her to thy protecting arms,<br />
+	With all her youth and all her charms!"<br />
+	<br />
+	How beautiful she is! How fair<br />
+	She lies within those arms, that press<br />
+	Her form with many a soft caress<br />
+	Of tenderness and watchful care!<br />
+	Sail forth into the sea, O ship!<br />
+	Through wind and wave, right onward steer!<br />
+	The moistened eye, the trembling lip,<br />
+	Are not the signs of doubt or fear.<br />
+	<br />
+	Sail forth into the sea of life,<br />
+	O gentle, loving, trusting wife,<br />
+	And safe from all adversity<br />
+	Upon the bosom of that sea<br />
+	Thy comings and thy goings be!<br />
+	For gentleness and love and trust<br />
+	Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;<br />
+	And in the wreck of noble lives<br />
+	Something immortal still survives!<br />
+	<br />
+	Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!<br />
+	Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!<br />
+	Humanity with all its fears,<br />
+	With all the hopes of future years,<br />
+	Is hanging breathless on thy fate!<br />
+	We know what Master laid thy keel,<br />
+	What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,<br />
+	Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,<br />
+	What anvils rang, what hammers beat,<br />
+	In what a forge and what a heat<br />
+	Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!<br />
+	Fear not each sudden sound and shock,<br />
+	'T is of the wave and not the rock;<br />
+	'T is but the flapping of the sail,<br />
+	And not a rent made by the gale!<br />
+	In spite of rock and tempest's roar,<br />
+	In spite of false lights on the shore,<br />
+	Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!<br />
+	Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,<br />
+	Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,<br />
+	Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,<br />
+	Are all with thee,&mdash;are all with thee!<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Castle"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Ship" title="Previous&mdash;The Building of the Ship"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Revere" title="Next&mdash;Paul Revere's Ride"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/castle.jpg"><img src="images/castle-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Castle-Builder" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Castle-Builder</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,<br />
+	A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And towers that touch imaginary skies.<br />
+	<br />
+	A fearless rider on his father's knee,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;An eager listener unto stories told<br />
+	At the Round Table of the nursery,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Of heroes and adventures manifold.<br />
+	<br />
+	There will be other towers for thee to build;<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;There will be other steeds for thee to ride;<br />
+	There will be other legends, and all filled<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With greater marvels and more glorified.<br />
+	<br />
+	Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Rising and reaching upward to the skies;<br />
+	Listening to voices in the upper air,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Revere"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Castle" title="Previous&mdash;The Castle-Builder"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Serpent" title="Next&mdash;The Building of the Long Serpent"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/revere.jpg"><img src="images/revere-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Paul Revere's Ride" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>Paul Revere's Ride</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	Listen, my children, and you shall hear<br />
+	Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,<br />
+	On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;<br />
+	Hardly a man is now alive<br />
+	Who remembers that famous day and year.<br />
+	<br />
+	He said to his friend, "If the British march<br />
+	By land or sea from the town to-night,<br />
+	Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch<br />
+	Of the North Church tower as a signal light,&mdash;<br />
+	One, if by land, and two, if by sea;<br />
+	And I on the opposite shore will be,<br />
+	Ready to ride and spread the alarm<br />
+	Through every Middlesex village and farm,<br />
+	For the country folk to be up and to arm."<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar<br />
+	Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,<br />
+	Just as the moon rose over the bay,<br />
+	Where swinging wide at her moorings lay<br />
+	The Somerset, British man-of-war;<br />
+	A phantom ship, with each mast and spar<br />
+	Across the moon like a prison bar,<br />
+	And a huge black hulk, that was magnified<br />
+	By its own reflection in the tide.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,<br />
+	Wanders and watches with eager ears,<br />
+	Till in the silence around him he hears<br />
+	The muster of men at the barrack door,<br />
+	The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,<br />
+	And the measured tread of the grenadiers,<br />
+	Marching down to their boats on the shore.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,<br />
+	By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,<br />
+	To the belfry-chamber overhead,<br />
+	And startled the pigeons from their perch<br />
+	On the sombre rafters, that round him made<br />
+	Masses and moving shapes of shade,&mdash;<br />
+	By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,<br />
+	To the highest window in the wall,<br />
+	Where he paused to listen and look down<br />
+	A moment on the roofs of the town,<br />
+	And the moonlight flowing over all.<br />
+	<br />
+	Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,<br />
+	In their night-encampment on the hill,<br />
+	Wrapped in silence so deep and still<br />
+	That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,<br />
+	The watchful night-wind, as it went<br />
+	Creeping along from tent to tent,<br />
+	And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"<br />
+	A moment only he feels the spell<br />
+	Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread<br />
+	Of the lonely belfry and the dead;<br />
+	For suddenly all his thoughts are bent<br />
+	On a shadowy something far away,<br />
+	Where the river widens to meet the bay,&mdash;<br />
+	A line of black that bends and floats<br />
+	On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,<br />
+	Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride<br />
+	On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.<br />
+	Now he patted his horse's side,<br />
+	Now gazed at the landscape far and near,<br />
+	Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,<br />
+	And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;<br />
+	But mostly he watched with eager search<br />
+	The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,<br />
+	As it rose above the graves on the hill,<br />
+	Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.<br />
+	And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height<br />
+	A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!<br />
+	He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,<br />
+	But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,<br />
+	A second lamp in the belfry burns!<br />
+	A hurry of hoofs in a village street,<br />
+	A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,<br />
+	And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark<br />
+	Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:<br />
+	That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,<br />
+	The fate of a nation was riding that night;<br />
+	And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,<br />
+	Kindled the land into flame with its heat.<br />
+	<br />
+	He has left the village and mounted the steep,<br />
+	And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,<br />
+	Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;<br />
+	And under the alders that skirt its edge,<br />
+	Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,<br />
+	Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.<br />
+	<br />
+	It was twelve by the village clock,<br />
+	When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.<br />
+	He heard the crowing of the cock,<br />
+	And the barking of the farmer's dog,<br />
+	And felt the damp of the river fog,<br />
+	That rises after the sun goes down.<br />
+	<br />
+	It was one by the village clock,<br />
+	When he galloped into Lexington.<br />
+	He saw the gilded weathercock<br />
+	Swim in the moonlight as he passed,<br />
+	And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,<br />
+	Gaze at him with a spectral glare,<br />
+	As if they already stood aghast<br />
+	At the bloody work they would look upon.<br />
+	<br />
+	It was two by the village clock,<br />
+	When he came to the bridge in Concord town<br />
+	He heard the bleating of the flock,<br />
+	And the twitter of birds among the trees,<br />
+	And felt the breath of the morning breeze<br />
+	Blowing over the meadows brown.<br />
+	And one was safe and asleep in his bed<br />
+	Who at the bridge would be first to fall,<br />
+	Who that day would be lying dead,<br />
+	Pierced by a British musket-ball.<br />
+	<br />
+	You know the rest. In the books you have read.<br />
+	How the British Regulars fired and fled,&mdash;<br />
+	How the farmers gave them ball for ball,<br />
+	From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,<br />
+	Chasing the red-coats down the lane,<br />
+	Then crossing the fields to emerge again<br />
+	Under the trees at the turn of the road,<br />
+	And only pausing to fire and load.<br />
+	<br />
+	So through the night rode Paul Revere;<br />
+	And so through the night went his cry of alarm<br />
+	To every Middlesex village and farm,&mdash;<br />
+	A cry of defiance and not of fear,<br />
+	A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,<br />
+	And a word that shall echo forevermore!<br />
+	For, borne on the night-wind of the Past<br />
+	Through all our history, to the last,<br />
+	In the hour of darkness and peril and need,<br />
+	The people will waken and listen to hear<br />
+	The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed<br />
+	And the midnight message of Paul Revere.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Serpent"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Revere" title="Previous&mdash;Paul Revere's Ride"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<strong>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</strong>
+</div>
+<a href="images/serpent.jpg"><img src="images/serpent-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Long Serpent" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Building of the Long Serpent</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In his ship-yard by the sea,<br />
+	Whistling, said, "It would bewilder<br />
+	Any man but Thorberg Skafting,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Any man but me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Near him lay the Dragon stranded,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Built of old by Raud the Strong,<br />
+	And King Olaf had commanded<br />
+	He should build another Dragon,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Twice as large and long.<br />
+	<br />
+	Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;As he sat with half-closed eyes,<br />
+	And his head turned sideways, drafting<br />
+	That new vessel for King Olaf<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Twice the Dragon's size.<br />
+	<br />
+	Round him busily hewed and hammered<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Mallet huge and heavy axe;<br />
+	Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;<br />
+	Whirred the wheels, that into rigging<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Spun the shining flax!<br />
+	<br />
+	All this tumult heard the master,&mdash;<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;It was music to his ear;<br />
+	Fancy whispered all the faster,<br />
+	"Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For a hundred year!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Workmen sweating at the forges<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Fashioned iron bolt and bar,<br />
+	Like a warlock's midnight orgies<br />
+	Smoked and bubbled the black caldron<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With the boiling tar.<br />
+	<br />
+	Did the warlocks mingle in it,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Thorberg Skafting, any curse?<br />
+	Could you not be gone a minute<br />
+	But some mischief must be doing,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Turning bad to worse?<br />
+	<br />
+	'T was an ill wind that came wafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;From his homestead words of woe;<br />
+	To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,<br />
+	Oft repeating to his workmen,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Build ye thus and so.<br />
+	<br />
+	After long delays returning<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Came the master back by night;<br />
+	To his ship-yard longing, yearning,<br />
+	Hurried he, and did not leave it<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Till the morning's light.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Come and see my ship, my darling!"<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the morrow said the King;<br />
+	"Finished now from keel to carling;<br />
+	Never yet was seen in Norway<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Such a wondrous thing!"<br />
+	<br />
+	In the ship-yard, idly talking,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;At the ship the workmen stared:<br />
+	Some one, all their labor balking,<br />
+	Down her sides had cut deep gashes,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Not a plank was spared!<br />
+	<br />
+	"Death be to the evil-doer!"<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With an oath King Olaf spoke!<br />
+	"But rewards to his pursuer!"<br />
+	And with wrath his face grew redder<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Than his scarlet cloak.<br />
+	<br />
+	Straight the master-builder, smiling,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Answered thus the angry King:<br />
+	"Cease blaspheming and reviling,<br />
+	Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Who has done this thing!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Till the King, delighted, swore,<br />
+	With much lauding and much thanking,<br />
+	"Handsomer is now my Dragon<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Than she was before!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Seventy ells and four extended<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the grass the vessel's keel;<br />
+	High above it, gilt and splendid,<br />
+	Rose the figure-head ferocious<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With its crest of steel.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then they launched her from the tressels,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In the ship-yard by the sea;<br />
+	She was the grandest of all vessels,<br />
+	Never ship was built in Norway<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Half so fine as she!<br />
+	<br />
+	The Long Serpent was she christened,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!<br />
+	They who to the Saga listened<br />
+	Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For a hundred year!<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by 
+Henry W. Longfellow
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+</pre>
+
+</body>
+</html>
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+<!DOCTYPE html
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+     "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd">
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
+<head>
+	<title>The Children's Own Longfellow</title>
+
+	<style type="text/css">
+<!--
+    div.titlepage { text-align: center; border-style: ridge; border-width: 3px; border-color-light: #c0c0c0; padding: 2; border-color-dark: "#0000ff";}
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+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. 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: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Posting Date: March 16, 2014 [EBook #9080]
+Release Date: October, 2005
+First Posted: September 3, 2003
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="titlepage">
+	<h1>The Children's Own Longfellow</h1>
+	<h2>Illustrated</h2>
+	<img src="images/hesperus-frontice.jpg"
+	     alt="The Wreck of the Hesperus"
+	     width="160"
+	     height="240"
+	     border="0" />
+	<h3>1908</h3>
+</div>
+
+<h4>Publishers' Note</h4>
+
+<blockquote>
+	Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his
+    poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with
+    youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet
+    best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers
+    that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these
+    poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American
+    artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands
+    of young folks and their parents.
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Contents"></a>
+<h4>Contents</h4>
+  <h5><a href="#Hesperus">The Wreck of the Hesperus</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Blacksmith">The Village Blacksmith</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Evangeline">Evangeline</a><br />
+  &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#First">Part the First</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Hiawatha">The Song of Hiawatha:</a><br />
+  &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#Sailing">Hiawatha's Sailing</a><br />
+  &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#Fishing">Hiawatha's Fishing</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Ship">The Building of the Ship</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Castle">The Castle-Builder</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Revere">Paul Revere's Ride</a></h5>
+  <h5><a href="#Serpent">The Building of the Long Serpent</a></h5>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Illustrations"></a>
+<h4>Illustrations</h4>
+<table cellspacing="10" cellpadding="5">
+   <tr>
+     <td width="25%"><div align="center"><a href="images/hesperus.jpg"><img src="images/hesperus-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Wreck of the Hesperus" border="0" /></a></div>
+	 </td>
+     <td width = "75%"><h5>The Wreck of the Hesperus<br />
+       <i>S.M. Arthurs</i><br /><br />
+       He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;Against the stinging blast</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/blacksmith.jpg"><img src="images/blacksmith-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Village Blacksmith" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Village Blacksmith<br />
+       <i>Howard Smith</i><br /><br />
+       And children coming home from school<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;Look in at the open door</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/evangeline.jpg"><img src="images/evangeline-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Evangeline" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>Evangeline<br /><br />
+       Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br />
+       When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/hiawatha.jpg"><img src="images/hiawatha-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Hiawatha's Fishing" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>Hiawatha's Fishing<br /><br />
+       And he dropped his line of cedar<br />
+       Through the clear, transparent water</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/ship.jpg"><img src="images/ship-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Ship" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Building of the Ship<br />
+       <i>C. W. Ashley</i><br /><br />
+       The sun shone on her golden hair,<br />
+       And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+    <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/castle.jpg"><img src="images/castle-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Castle-Builder" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Castle-Builder<br />
+       <i>Olive Rush</i><br /><br />
+       A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;And towers that touch imaginary skies</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+      <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/revere.jpg"><img src="images/revere-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Paul Revere's Ride" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>Paul Revere's Ride<br />
+       <i>Howard Smith</i><br /><br />
+       A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door<br /></h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+   <tr>
+     <td><div align="center"><a href="images/serpent.jpg"><img src="images/serpent-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Long Serpent" border="0" /></a></div></td>
+     <td><h5>The Building of the Long Serpent<br />
+       <br />
+       "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting<br />
+       &nbsp;&nbsp;For a hundred year!"</h5>
+	 </td>
+   </tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Hesperus"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<strong>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</strong>
+<a href="#Blacksmith" title="Next&mdash;The Village Blacksmith"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/hesperus.jpg"><img src="images/hesperus-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Wreck of the Hesperus" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Wreck of the Hesperus</h4>
+
+
+<blockquote>
+	It was the schooner Hesperus,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That sailed the wintry sea;<br />
+	And the skipper had taken his little daughter,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;To bear him company.<br />
+	<br />
+	Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Her cheeks like the dawn of day,<br />
+	And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That ope in the month of May.<br />
+	<br />
+	The skipper he stood beside the helm,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;His pipe was in his mouth,<br />
+	And he watched how the veering flaw did blow<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The smoke now West, now South.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then up and spake an old Sail&ograve;r,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Had sailed to the Spanish Main,<br />
+	"I pray thee, put into yonder port,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For I fear a hurricane.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And to-night no moon we see!"<br />
+	The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And a scornful laugh laughed he.<br />
+	<br />
+	Colder and louder blew the wind,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A gale from the Northeast,<br />
+	The snow fell hissing in the brine,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And the billows frothed like yeast.<br />
+	<br />
+	Down came the storm, and smote amain<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The vessel in its strength;<br />
+	She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Then leaped her cable's length.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And do not tremble so;<br />
+	For I can weather the roughest gale<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That ever wind did blow."<br />
+	<br />
+	He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Against the stinging blast;<br />
+	He cut a rope from a broken spar,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And bound her to the mast.<br />
+	<br />
+	"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Oh say, what may it be?"<br />
+	"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"&mdash;<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And he steered for the open sea.<br />
+	<br />
+	"O father! I hear the sound of guns,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Oh say, what may it be?"<br />
+	"Some ship in distress, that cannot live<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In such an angry sea!"<br />
+	<br />
+	"O father! I see a gleaming light,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Oh say, what may it be?"<br />
+	But the father answered never a word,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A frozen corpse was he.<br />
+	<br />
+	Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With his face turned to the skies,<br />
+	The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On his fixed and glassy eyes.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;That saved she might be;<br />
+	And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the Lake of Galilee.<br />
+	<br />
+	And fast through the midnight dark and drear,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Through the whistling sleet and snow,<br />
+	Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.<br />
+	<br />
+	And ever the fitful gusts between<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A sound came from the land;<br />
+	It was the sound of the trampling surf<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.<br />
+	<br />
+	The breakers were right beneath her bows,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;She drifted a dreary wreck,<br />
+	And a whooping billow swept the crew<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Like icicles from her deck.<br />
+	<br />
+	She struck where the white and fleecy waves<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Looked soft as carded wool,<br />
+	But the cruel rocks, they gored her side<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Like the horns of an angry bull.<br />
+	<br />
+	Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With the masts went by the board;<br />
+	Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Ho! ho! the breakers roared!<br />
+	<br />
+	At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A fisherman stood aghast,<br />
+	To see the form of a maiden fair,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Lashed close to a drifting mast.<br />
+	<br />
+	The salt sea was frozen on her breast,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The salt tears in her eyes;<br />
+	And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the billows fall and rise.<br />
+	<br />
+	Such was The Wreck of the Hesperus,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In the midnight and the snow!<br />
+	Christ save us all from a death like this,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the reef of Norman's Woe!<br />
+  </blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Blacksmith"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Hesperus" title="Previous&mdash;The Wreck of the Hesperus"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Evangeline" title="Next&mdash;Evangeline"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/blacksmith.jpg"><img src="images/blacksmith-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Village Blacksmith" border="0" /></a>
+
+
+<h4>The Village Blacksmith</h4>
+
+<blockquote>
+	Under a spreading chestnut-tree<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;The village smithy stands;<br />
+	The smith, a mighty man is he,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With large and sinewy hands;<br />
+	And the muscles of his brawny arms<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Are strong as iron bands.<br />
+	<br />
+	His hair is crisp, and black, and long,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;His face is like the tan;<br />
+	His brow is wet with honest sweat,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;He earns whate'er he can,<br />
+	And looks the whole world in the face,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For he owes not any man.<br />
+	<br />
+	Week in, week out, from morn till night,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;You can hear his bellows blow;<br />
+	You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With measured beat and slow,<br />
+	Like a sexton ringing the village bell,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;When the evening sun is low.<br />
+	<br />
+	And children coming home from school<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Look in at the open door;<br />
+	They love to see the flaming forge,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And hear the bellows roar,<br />
+	And catch the burning sparks that fly<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Like chaff from a threshing-floor.<br />
+	<br />
+	He goes on Sunday to the church,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And sits among his boys;<br />
+	He hears the parson pray and preach,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;He hears his daughter's voice,<br />
+	Singing in the village choir,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And it makes his heart rejoice.<br />
+	<br />
+	It sounds to him like her mother's voice,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Singing in Paradise!<br />
+	He needs must think of her once more,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;How in the grave she lies;<br />
+	And with his hard, rough hand he wipes<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A tear out of his eyes.<br />
+	<br />
+	Toiling,&mdash;rejoicing,&mdash;sorrowing,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Onward through life he goes;<br />
+	Each morning sees some task begin,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Each evening sees it close;<br />
+	Something attempted, something done,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Has earned a night's repose.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For the lesson thou hast taught!<br />
+	Thus at the flaming forge of life<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Our fortunes must be wrought;<br />
+	Thus on its sounding anvil shaped<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Each burning deed and thought.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Evangeline"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Blacksmith" title="Previous&mdash;The Village Blacksmith"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#First" title="Next&mdash;Evangeline&mdash;Part the First"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/evangeline.jpg"><img src="images/evangeline-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Evangeline" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>Evangeline</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,<br />
+	Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,<br />
+	Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,<br />
+	Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.<br />
+	Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean<br />
+	Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.<br />
+	<br />
+	This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it<br />
+	Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?<br />
+	Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,&mdash;<br />
+	Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,<br />
+	Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?<br />
+	Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!<br />
+	Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October<br />
+	Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.<br />
+	Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pr&eacute;.<br />
+	<br />
+	Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,<br />
+	Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,<br />
+	List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest;<br />
+	List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="40%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="First"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Evangeline" title="Previous&mdash;Evangeline"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Hiawatha" title="Next&mdash;The Song of Hiawatha"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+
+<h5>Part the First</h5>
+<blockquote>
+	I<br />
+	<br />
+	In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,<br />
+	Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pr&eacute;<br />
+	Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,<br />
+	Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.<br />
+	Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,<br />
+	Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates<br />
+	Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.<br />
+	West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields<br />
+	Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward<br />
+	Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains<br />
+	Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic<br />
+	Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.<br />
+	There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.<br />
+	Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,<br />
+	Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.<br />
+	Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting<br />
+	Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.<br />
+	There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset<br />
+	Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,<br />
+	Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles<br />
+	Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden<br />
+	Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors<br />
+	Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.<br />
+	Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children<br />
+	Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.<br />
+	Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,<br />
+	Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.<br />
+	Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank<br />
+	Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry<br />
+	Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village<br />
+	Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,<br />
+	Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.<br />
+	Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,&mdash;<br />
+	Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from<br />
+	Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.<br />
+	Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;<br />
+	But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;<br />
+	There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.<br />
+	<br />
+	Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,<br />
+	Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pr&eacute;,<br />
+	Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,<br />
+	Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.<br />
+	Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;<br />
+	Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;<br />
+	White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.<br />
+	Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.<br />
+	Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,<br />
+	Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!<br />
+	Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.<br />
+	When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide<br />
+	Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.<br />
+	Fair was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret<br />
+	Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop<br />
+	Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,<br />
+	Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,<br />
+	Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,<br />
+	Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,<br />
+	Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.<br />
+	But a celestial brightness&mdash;a more ethereal beauty&mdash;<br />
+	Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,<br />
+	Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br />
+	When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.<br />
+	<br />
+	Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer<br />
+	Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady<br />
+	Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.<br />
+	Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath<br />
+	Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.<br />
+	Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,<br />
+	Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,<br />
+	Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.<br />
+	Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown<br />
+	Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.<br />
+	Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard.<br />
+	There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;<br />
+	There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,<br />
+	Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame<br />
+	Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.<br />
+	Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one<br />
+	Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,<br />
+	Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.<br />
+	There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates<br />
+	Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes<br />
+	Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pr&eacute;<br />
+	Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.<br />
+	Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal,<br />
+	Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;<br />
+	Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!<br />
+	Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,<br />
+	And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,<br />
+	Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;<br />
+	Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,<br />
+	Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered<br />
+	Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.<br />
+	But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;<br />
+	Gabriel Lajeunesse. the son of Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;<br />
+	For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,<br />
+	Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.<br />
+	Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood<br />
+	Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,<br />
+	Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters<br />
+	Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.<br />
+	But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,<br />
+	Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.<br />
+	There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him<br />
+	Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,<br />
+	Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel<br />
+	Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.<br />
+	Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness<br />
+	Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,<br />
+	Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,<br />
+	And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,<br />
+	Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.<br />
+	Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,<br />
+	Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.<br />
+	Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,<br />
+	Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow<br />
+	Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;<br />
+	Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!<br />
+	Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.<br />
+	He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,<br />
+	Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.<br />
+	She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.<br />
+	"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine<br />
+	Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;<br />
+	She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,<br />
+	Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children.<br />
+	<br />
+	II<br />
+	<br />
+	Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,<br />
+	And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.<br />
+	Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,<br />
+	Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.<br />
+	Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September<br />
+	Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.<br />
+	All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.<br />
+	Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey<br />
+	Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted<br />
+	Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.<br />
+	Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,<br />
+	Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!<br />
+	Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape<br />
+	Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.<br />
+	Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean<br />
+	Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.<br />
+	Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,<br />
+	Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,<br />
+	All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun<br />
+	Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;<br />
+	While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,<br />
+	Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest<br />
+	Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.<br />
+	<br />
+	Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.<br />
+	Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending<br />
+	Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.<br />
+	Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,<br />
+	And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.<br />
+	Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,<br />
+	Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,<br />
+	Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.<br />
+	Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,<br />
+	Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,<br />
+	Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,<br />
+	Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly<br />
+	Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;<br />
+	Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,<br />
+	When from the forest at night, through the starry silence the wolves howled.<br />
+	Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,<br />
+	Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.<br />
+	Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,<br />
+	While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,<br />
+	Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,<br />
+	Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.<br />
+	Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders<br />
+	Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence<br />
+	Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.<br />
+	Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,<br />
+	Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;<br />
+	Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,<br />
+	Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.<br />
+	<br />
+	In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer<br />
+	Sat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths<br />
+	Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,<br />
+	Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,<br />
+	Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.<br />
+	Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair<br />
+	Laughed in the flickering light; and the pewter plates on the dresser<br />
+	Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.<br />
+	Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,<br />
+	Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him<br />
+	Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.<br />
+	Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,<br />
+	Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.<br />
+	Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,<br />
+	While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,<br />
+	Followed the old man's song and united the fragments together.<br />
+	As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,<br />
+	Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,<br />
+	So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,<br />
+	Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.<br />
+	Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.<br />
+	"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,<br />
+	"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle<br />
+	Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;<br />
+	Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;<br />
+	Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling<br />
+	Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams<br />
+	Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."<br />
+	Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:&mdash;<br />
+	"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!<br />
+	Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with<br />
+	Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.<br />
+	Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."<br />
+	Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,<br />
+	And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:&mdash;<br />
+	"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors<br />
+	Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.<br />
+	What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded<br />
+	On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate<br />
+	Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time<br />
+	Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."<br />
+	Then made answer the farmer: "Perhaps some friendlier purpose<br />
+	Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England<br />
+	By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,<br />
+	And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."<br />
+	"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,<br />
+	Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:&mdash;<br />
+	"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau S&eacute;jour, nor Port Royal,<br />
+	Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,<br />
+	Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of tomorrow.<br />
+	Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;<br />
+	Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."<br />
+	Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:&mdash;<br />
+	"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,<br />
+	Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,<br />
+	Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.<br />
+	Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow<br />
+	Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.<br />
+	Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village<br />
+	Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,<br />
+	Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.<br />
+	Ren&eacute; Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.<br />
+	Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"<br />
+	As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,<br />
+	Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,<br />
+	And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.<br />
+	<br />
+	III<br />
+	<br />
+	Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,<br />
+	Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;<br />
+	Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung<br />
+	Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows<br />
+	Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.<br />
+	Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred<br />
+	Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.<br />
+	Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,<br />
+	Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.<br />
+	Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,<br />
+	Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.<br />
+	He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;<br />
+	For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,<br />
+	And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,<br />
+	And of the white L&eacute;tiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened<br />
+	Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;<br />
+	And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,<br />
+	And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,<br />
+	And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,<br />
+	With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.<br />
+	Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,<br />
+	"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,<br />
+	And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."<br />
+	Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,&mdash;<br />
+	"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;<br />
+	And what their errand may be I know not better than others.<br />
+	Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention<br />
+	Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"<br />
+	"God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;<br />
+	"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?<br />
+	Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"<br />
+	But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,&mdash;<br />
+	"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice<br />
+	Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,<br />
+	When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."<br />
+	This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it<br />
+	When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.<br />
+	"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,<br />
+	Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice<br />
+	Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,<br />
+	And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided<br />
+	Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.<br />
+	Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,<br />
+	Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.<br />
+	But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;<br />
+	Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty<br />
+	Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace<br />
+	That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion<br />
+	Fell on an orphan girl who lived as a maid in the household.<br />
+	She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,<br />
+	Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.<br />
+	As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,<br />
+	Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder<br />
+	Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand<br />
+	Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,<br />
+	And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,<br />
+	Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."<br />
+	Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith<br />
+	Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;<br />
+	All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors<br />
+	Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,<br />
+	Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed<br />
+	Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pr&eacute;;<br />
+	While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,<br />
+	Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,<br />
+	Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.<br />
+	Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,<br />
+	And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.<br />
+	Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table<br />
+	Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;<br />
+	And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,<br />
+	Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.<br />
+	Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,<br />
+	While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,<br />
+	Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.<br />
+	Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men<br />
+	Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre,<br />
+	Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.<br />
+	Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,<br />
+	Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise<br />
+	Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows.<br />
+	Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,<br />
+	Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry<br />
+	Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway<br />
+	Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.<br />
+	Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step<br />
+	Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.<br />
+	Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,<br />
+	And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.<br />
+	Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.<br />
+	Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,<br />
+	Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.<br />
+	Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.<br />
+	Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press<br />
+	Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded<br />
+	Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.<br />
+	This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,<br />
+	Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.<br />
+	Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight<br />
+	Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden<br />
+	Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.<br />
+	Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with<br />
+	Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!<br />
+	Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,<br />
+	Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.<br />
+	Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness<br />
+	Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight<br />
+	Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.<br />
+	And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass<br />
+	Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,<br />
+	As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!<br />
+	<br />
+	IV<br />
+	<br />
+	Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pr&eacute;.<br />
+	Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,<br />
+	Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.<br />
+	Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor<br />
+	Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.<br />
+	Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,<br />
+	Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.<br />
+	Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk<br />
+	Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,<br />
+	Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,<br />
+	Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.<br />
+	Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.<br />
+	Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors<br />
+	Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.<br />
+	Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;<br />
+	For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,<br />
+	All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.<br />
+	Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:<br />
+	For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;<br />
+	Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness<br />
+	Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.<br />
+	<br />
+	Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,<br />
+	Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.<br />
+	There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;<br />
+	There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.<br />
+	Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,<br />
+	Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.<br />
+	Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white<br />
+	Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler<br />
+	Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.<br />
+	Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,<br />
+	<em>Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres</em>, and <em>Le Carillon de Dunquerque</em>,<br />
+	And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.<br />
+	Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances<br />
+	Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;<br />
+	Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.<br />
+	Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!<br />
+	Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!<br />
+	<br />
+	So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous<br />
+	Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.<br />
+	Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,<br />
+	Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones<br />
+	Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.<br />
+	Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them<br />
+	Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor<br />
+	Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,&mdash;<br />
+	Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal<br />
+	Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.<br />
+	Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,<br />
+	Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.<br />
+	"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.<br />
+	Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,<br />
+	Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper<br />
+	Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.<br />
+	Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;<br />
+	Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds<br />
+	Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province<br />
+	Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there<br />
+	Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!<br />
+	Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"<br />
+	As, when the air is serene in sultry solstice of summer,<br />
+	Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones<br />
+	Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,<br />
+	Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,<br />
+	Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;<br />
+	So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.<br />
+	Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose<br />
+	Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,<br />
+	And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.<br />
+	Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations<br />
+	Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others<br />
+	Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,<br />
+	As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.<br />
+	Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,&mdash;<br />
+	"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!<br />
+	Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"<br />
+	More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier<br />
+	Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.<br />
+	<br />
+	In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,<br />
+	Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician<br />
+	Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.<br />
+	Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence<br />
+	All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;<br />
+	Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful<br />
+	Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.<br />
+	"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?<br />
+	Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,<br />
+	Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!<br />
+	Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?<br />
+	Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?<br />
+	This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it<br />
+	Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?<br />
+	Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!<br />
+	See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!<br />
+	Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'<br />
+	Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,<br />
+	Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"<br />
+	Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people<br />
+	Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,<br />
+	While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar.<br />
+	Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,<br />
+	Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria<br />
+	Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,<br />
+	Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides<br />
+	Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.<br />
+	Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand<br />
+	Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,<br />
+	Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each<br />
+	Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.<br />
+	Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;<br />
+	There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;<br />
+	There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy,<br />
+	And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.<br />
+	Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset<br />
+	Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.<br />
+	Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,<br />
+	And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,&mdash;<br />
+	Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!<br />
+	Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,<br />
+	Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,<br />
+	As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,<br />
+	Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.<br />
+	Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors<br />
+	Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.<br />
+	Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.<br />
+	All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows<br />
+	Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,<br />
+	"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer<br />
+	Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.<br />
+	Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.<br />
+	Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted,<br />
+	Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.<br />
+	Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.<br />
+	In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall<br />
+	Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.<br />
+	Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder<br />
+	Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!<br />
+	Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;<br />
+	Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.<br />
+	<br />
+	V<br />
+	<br />
+	Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day<br />
+	Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.<br />
+	Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,<br />
+	Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,<br />
+	Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,<br />
+	Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,<br />
+	Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.<br />
+	Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,<br />
+	While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach<br />
+	Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.<br />
+	All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;<br />
+	All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.<br />
+	Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,<br />
+	Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.<br />
+	Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors<br />
+	Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession<br />
+	Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.<br />
+	Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,<br />
+	Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,<br />
+	So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended<br />
+	Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.<br />
+	Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,<br />
+	Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:&mdash;<br />
+	"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!<br />
+	Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"<br />
+	Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside<br />
+	Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them<br />
+	Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.<br />
+	<br />
+	Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,<br />
+	Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,&mdash;<br />
+	Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,<br />
+	And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.<br />
+	Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,<br />
+	Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,&mdash;<br />
+	"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another<br />
+	Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"<br />
+	Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father<br />
+	Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!<br />
+	Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep<br />
+	Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.<br />
+	But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,<br />
+	Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.<br />
+	Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.<br />
+	<br />
+	There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.<br />
+	Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion<br />
+	Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children<br />
+	Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.<br />
+	So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,<br />
+	While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.<br />
+	Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight<br />
+	Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean<br />
+	Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach<br />
+	Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.<br />
+	Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,<br />
+	Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,<br />
+	All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,<br />
+	Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.<br />
+	Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,<br />
+	Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving<br />
+	Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.<br />
+	Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;<br />
+	Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;<br />
+	Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,&mdash;<br />
+	Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.<br />
+	Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,<br />
+	Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.<br />
+	<br />
+	But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,<br />
+	Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.<br />
+	Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,<br />
+	Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.<br />
+	Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,<br />
+	Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,<br />
+	Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.<br />
+	Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,<br />
+	And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,<br />
+	Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,<br />
+	E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.<br />
+	Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,<br />
+	Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,<br />
+	But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.<br />
+	"<em>Benedicite</em>!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.<br />
+	More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents<br />
+	Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,<br />
+	Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.<br />
+	Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,<br />
+	Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them<br />
+	Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.<br />
+	Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.<br />
+	<br />
+	Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red<br />
+	Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon<br />
+	Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,<br />
+	Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.<br />
+	Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,<br />
+	Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.<br />
+	Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were<br />
+	Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.<br />
+	Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,<br />
+	Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops<br />
+	Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.<br />
+	<br />
+	These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.<br />
+	Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,<br />
+	"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pr&eacute;!"<br />
+	Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,<br />
+	Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle<br />
+	Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.<br />
+	Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments<br />
+	Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,<br />
+	When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,<br />
+	Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.<br />
+	Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses<br />
+	Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.<br />
+	<br />
+	Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden<br />
+	Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;<br />
+	And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,<br />
+	Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore<br />
+	Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.<br />
+	Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden<br />
+	Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.<br />
+	Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.<br />
+	Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;<br />
+	And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.<br />
+	Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,<br />
+	Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.<br />
+	Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,<br />
+	Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,<br />
+	And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.<br />
+	Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,&mdash;<br />
+	"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season<br />
+	Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,<br />
+	Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."<br />
+	Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,<br />
+	Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,<br />
+	But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pr&eacute;.<br />
+	And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,<br />
+	Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,<br />
+	Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.<br />
+	'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,<br />
+	With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.<br />
+	Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;<br />
+	And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,<br />
+	Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Hiawatha"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#First" title="Previous&mdash;Evangeline&mdash;Part the First"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Fishing" title="Next&mdash;Hiawatha's Fishing"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/hiawatha.jpg"><img src="images/hiawatha-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Song of Hiawatha" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Song of Hiawatha</h4>
+
+<hr width="40%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Sailing"></a>
+
+<h5>Hiawatha's Sailing</h5>
+<blockquote>
+	"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!<br />
+	Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!<br />
+	Growing by the rushing river,<br />
+	Tall and stately in the valley!<br />
+	I a light canoe will build me,<br />
+	Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,<br />
+	That shall float upon the river,<br />
+	Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,<br />
+	Like a yellow water-lily!<br />
+	<br />
+	"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!<br />
+	Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,<br />
+	For the Summer-time is coming,<br />
+	And the sun is warm in heaven,<br />
+	And you need no white-skin wrapper!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus aloud cried Hiawatha<br />
+	In the solitary forest,<br />
+	By the rushing Taquamenaw,<br />
+	When the birds were singing gayly,<br />
+	In the Moon of Leaves were singing,<br />
+	And the sun, from sleep awaking,<br />
+	Started up and said, "Behold me!<br />
+	Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the tree with all its branches<br />
+	Rustled in the breeze of morning,<br />
+	Saying, with a sigh of patience,<br />
+	"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	With his knife the tree he girdled;<br />
+	Just beneath its lowest branches,<br />
+	Just above the roots, he cut it,<br />
+	Till the sap came oozing outward;<br />
+	Down the trunk, from top to bottom,<br />
+	Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,<br />
+	With a wooden wedge he raised it,<br />
+	Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!<br />
+	Of your strong and pliant branches,<br />
+	My canoe to make more steady,<br />
+	Make more strong and firm beneath me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Through the summit of the Cedar<br />
+	Went a sound, a cry of horror,<br />
+	Went a murmur of resistance;<br />
+	But it whispered, bending downward,<br />
+	"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,<br />
+	Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,<br />
+	Like two bows he formed and shaped them,<br />
+	Like two bended bows together.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!<br />
+	Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!<br />
+	My canoe to bind together,<br />
+	So to bind the ends together<br />
+	That the water may not enter,<br />
+	That the river may not wet me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the Larch, with all its fibres,<br />
+	Shivered in the air of morning,<br />
+	Touched his forehead with its tassels,<br />
+	Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,<br />
+	"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	From the earth he tore the fibres,<br />
+	Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,<br />
+	Closely sewed the bark together,<br />
+	Bound it closely to the frame-work.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!<br />
+	Of your balsam and your resin,<br />
+	So to close the seams together<br />
+	That the water may not enter,<br />
+	That the river may not wet me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,<br />
+	Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,<br />
+	Rattled like a shore with pebbles,<br />
+	Answered wailing, answered weeping,<br />
+	"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And he took the tears of balsam,<br />
+	Took the resin of the Fir-tree,<br />
+	Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,<br />
+	Made each crevice safe from water.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!<br />
+	All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!<br />
+	I will make a necklace of them,<br />
+	Make a girdle for my beauty,<br />
+	And two stars to deck her bosom!"<br />
+	<br />
+	From a hollow tree the Hedgehog<br />
+	With his sleepy eyes looked at him,<br />
+	Shot his shining quills, like arrows,<br />
+	Saying with a drowsy murmur,<br />
+	Through the tangle of his whiskers,<br />
+	"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	From the ground the quills he gathered,<br />
+	All the little shining arrows,<br />
+	Stained them red and blue and yellow,<br />
+	With the juice of roots and berries;<br />
+	Into his canoe he wrought them,<br />
+	Round its waist a shining girdle,<br />
+	Round its bows a gleaming necklace,<br />
+	On its breast two stars resplendent.<br />
+	<br />
+	Thus the Birch Canoe was builded<br />
+	In the valley, by the river,<br />
+	In the bosom of the forest;<br />
+	And the forest's life was in it,<br />
+	All its mystery and its magic,<br />
+	All the lightness of the birch-tree,<br />
+	All the toughness of the cedar,<br />
+	All the larch's supple sinews;<br />
+	And it floated on the river<br />
+	Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,<br />
+	Like a yellow water-lily.<br />
+	<br />
+	Paddles none had Hiawatha,<br />
+	Paddles none he had or needed,<br />
+	For his thoughts as paddles served him,<br />
+	And his wishes served to guide him;<br />
+	Swift or slow at will he glided,<br />
+	Veered to right or left at pleasure.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he called aloud to Kwasind,<br />
+	To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,<br />
+	Saying, "Help me clear this river<br />
+	Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."<br />
+	<br />
+	Straight into the river Kwasind<br />
+	Plunged as if he were an otter,<br />
+	Dived as if he were a beaver,<br />
+	Stood up to his waist in water,<br />
+	To his arm-pits in the river,<br />
+	Swam and shouted in the river,<br />
+	Tugged at sunken logs and branches,<br />
+	With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,<br />
+	With his feet the ooze and tangle.<br />
+	<br />
+	And thus sailed my Hiawatha<br />
+	Down the rushing Taquamenaw,<br />
+	Sailed through all its bends and windings,<br />
+	Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,<br />
+	While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,<br />
+	Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.<br />
+	<br />
+	Up and down the river went they,<br />
+	In and out among its islands,<br />
+	Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,<br />
+	Dragged the dead trees from its channel,<br />
+	Made its passage safe and certain,<br />
+	Made a pathway for the people,<br />
+	From its springs among the mountains,<br />
+	To the waters of Pauwating,<br />
+	To the bay of Taquamenau.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="40%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Fishing"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Hiawatha" title="Previous&mdash;The Song of Hiawatha"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Ship" title="Next&mdash;The Building of the Ship"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+
+<h5>Hiawatha's Fishing</h5>
+<blockquote>
+	Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,<br />
+	On the shining Big-Sea-Water,<br />
+	With his fishing-line of cedar,<br />
+	Of the twisted bark of cedar,<br />
+	Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,<br />
+	Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,<br />
+	In his birch canoe exulting<br />
+	All alone went Hiawatha.<br />
+	<br />
+	Through the clear, transparent water<br />
+	He could see the fishes swimming<br />
+	Far down in the depths below him;<br />
+	See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,<br />
+	Like a sunbeam in the water,<br />
+	See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,<br />
+	Like a spider on the bottom,<br />
+	On the white and sandy bottom.<br />
+	<br />
+	At the stern sat Hiawatha,<br />
+	With his fishing-line of cedar;<br />
+	In his plumes the breeze of morning<br />
+	Played as in the hemlock branches;<br />
+	On the bows, with tail erected,<br />
+	Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;<br />
+	In his fur the breeze of morning<br />
+	Played as in the prairie grasses.<br />
+	<br />
+	On the white sand of the bottom<br />
+	Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,<br />
+	Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;<br />
+	Through his gills he breathed the water,<br />
+	With his fins he fanned and winnowed,<br />
+	With his tail he swept the sand-floor.<br />
+	<br />
+	There he lay in all his armor;<br />
+	On each side a shield to guard him,<br />
+	Plates of bone upon his forehead,<br />
+	Down his sides and back and shoulders<br />
+	Plates of bone with spines projecting!<br />
+	Painted was he with his war-paints,<br />
+	Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.<br />
+	Spots of brown and spots of sable;<br />
+	And he lay there on the bottom,<br />
+	Fanning with his fins of purple,<br />
+	As above him Hiawatha<br />
+	In his birch canoe came sailing,<br />
+	With his fishing-line of cedar.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,<br />
+	Down into the depths beneath him,<br />
+	"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!<br />
+	Come up from below the water,<br />
+	Let us see which is the stronger!"<br />
+	And he dropped his line of cedar<br />
+	Through the clear, transparent water,<br />
+	Waited vainly for an answer,<br />
+	Long sat waiting for an answer,<br />
+	And repeating loud and louder,<br />
+	"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Fanning slowly in the water,<br />
+	Looking up at Hiawatha,<br />
+	Listening to his call and clamor,<br />
+	His unnecessary tumult,<br />
+	Till he wearied of the shouting;<br />
+	And he said to the Kenozha,<br />
+	To the pike, the Maskenozha,<br />
+	"Take the bait of this rude fellow,<br />
+	Break the line of Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	In his fingers Hiawatha<br />
+	Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;<br />
+	As he drew it in, it tugged so<br />
+	That the birch canoe stood endwise,<br />
+	Like a birch log in the water,<br />
+	With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,<br />
+	Perched and frisking on the summit.<br />
+	<br />
+	Full of scorn was Hiawatha<br />
+	When he saw the fish rise upward,<br />
+	Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,<br />
+	Coming nearer, nearer to him,<br />
+	And he shouted through the water,<br />
+	"Esa! esa! shame upon you!<br />
+	You are but the pike, Kenozha,<br />
+	You are not the fish I wanted,<br />
+	You are not the King of Fishes!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Reeling downward to the bottom<br />
+	Sank the pike in great confusion,<br />
+	And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	To the bream, with scales of crimson,<br />
+	"Take the bait of this great boaster,<br />
+	Break the line of Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,<br />
+	Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	Seized the line of Hiawatha,<br />
+	Swung with all his weight upon it,<br />
+	Made a whirlpool in the water,<br />
+	Whirled the birch canoe in circles,<br />
+	Round and round in gurgling eddies,<br />
+	Till the circles in the water<br />
+	Reached the far-off sandy beaches,<br />
+	Till the water-flags and rushes<br />
+	Nodded on the distant margins.<br />
+	<br />
+	But when Hiawatha saw him<br />
+	Slowly rising through the water,<br />
+	Lifting up his disk refulgent,<br />
+	Loud he shouted in derision,<br />
+	"Esa! esa! shame upon you!<br />
+	You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	You are not the fish I wanted,<br />
+	You are not the King of Fishes!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,<br />
+	Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,<br />
+	And again the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Heard the shout of Hiawatha,<br />
+	Heard his challenge of defiance,<br />
+	The unnecessary tumult,<br />
+	Ringing far across the water.<br />
+	<br />
+	From the white sand of the bottom<br />
+	Up he rose with angry gesture,<br />
+	Quivering in each nerve and fibre,<br />
+	Clashing all his plates of armor,<br />
+	Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;<br />
+	In his wrath he darted upward,<br />
+	Flashing leaped into the sunshine,<br />
+	Opened his great jaws, and swallowed<br />
+	Both canoe and Hiawatha.<br />
+	<br />
+	Down into that darksome cavern<br />
+	Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,<br />
+	As a log on some black river<br />
+	Shoots and plunges down the rapids,<br />
+	Found himself in utter darkness,<br />
+	Groped about in helpless wonder,<br />
+	Till he felt a great heart beating,<br />
+	Throbbing in that utter darkness.<br />
+	<br />
+	And he smote it in his anger,<br />
+	With his fist, the heart of Nahma.<br />
+	Felt the mighty King of Fishes<br />
+	Shudder through each nerve and fibre,<br />
+	Heard the water gurgle round him<br />
+	As he leaped and staggered through it,<br />
+	Sick at heart, and faint and weary.<br />
+	<br />
+	Crosswise then did Hiawatha<br />
+	Drag his birch-canoe for safety,<br />
+	Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,<br />
+	In the turmoil and confusion,<br />
+	Forth he might be hurled and perish.<br />
+	And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,<br />
+	Frisked and chattered very gayly,<br />
+	Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha<br />
+	Till the labor was completed.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then said Hiawatha to him,<br />
+	"O my little friend, the squirrel,<br />
+	Bravely have you toiled to help me;<br />
+	Take the thanks of Hiawatha,<br />
+	And the name which now he gives you;<br />
+	For hereafter and forever<br />
+	Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,<br />
+	Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And again the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Gasped and quivered in the water,<br />
+	Then was still, and drifted landward<br />
+	Till he grated on the pebbles,<br />
+	Till the listening Hiawatha<br />
+	Heard him grate upon the margin,<br />
+	Felt him strand upon the pebbles,<br />
+	Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,<br />
+	Lay there dead upon the margin.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he heard a clang and flapping,<br />
+	As of many wings assembling,<br />
+	Heard a screaming and confusion,<br />
+	As of birds of prey contending,<br />
+	Saw a gleam of light above him,<br />
+	Shining through the ribs of Nahma,<br />
+	Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,<br />
+	Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,<br />
+	Gazing at him through the opening,<br />
+	Heard them saying to each other,<br />
+	"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And he shouted from below them,<br />
+	Cried exulting from the caverns:<br />
+	"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!<br />
+	I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;<br />
+	Make the rifts a little larger,<br />
+	With your claws the openings widen,<br />
+	Set me free from this dark prison,<br />
+	And henceforward and forever<br />
+	Men shall speak of your achievements,<br />
+	Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,<br />
+	Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"<br />
+	<br />
+	And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls<br />
+	Toiled with beak and claws together,<br />
+	Made the rifts and openings wider<br />
+	In the mighty ribs of Nahma,<br />
+	And from peril and from prison,<br />
+	From the body of the sturgeon,<br />
+	From the peril of the water,<br />
+	They released my Hiawatha.<br />
+	<br />
+	He was standing near his wigwam,<br />
+	On the margin of the water,<br />
+	And he called to old Nokomis,<br />
+	Called and beckoned to Nokomis,<br />
+	Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,<br />
+	Lying lifeless on the pebbles,<br />
+	With the sea-gulls feeding on him.<br />
+	<br />
+	"I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,<br />
+	Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;<br />
+	"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,<br />
+	Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;<br />
+	Drive them not away, Nokomis,<br />
+	They have saved me from great peril<br />
+	In the body of the sturgeon,<br />
+	Wait until their meal is ended,<br />
+	Till their craws are full with feasting,<br />
+	Till they homeward fly, at sunset,<br />
+	To their nests among the marshes;<br />
+	Then bring all your pots and kettles,<br />
+	And make oil for us in Winter."<br />
+	<br />
+	And she waited till the sun set,<br />
+	Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,<br />
+	Rose above the tranquil water,<br />
+	Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,<br />
+	From their banquet rose with clamor,<br />
+	And across the fiery sunset<br />
+	Winged their way to far-off islands,<br />
+	To their nests among the rushes.<br />
+	<br />
+	To his sleep went Hiawatha,<br />
+	And Nokomis to her labor,<br />
+	Toiling patient in the moonlight,<br />
+	Till the sun and moon changed places,<br />
+	Till the sky was red with sunrise,<br />
+	And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,<br />
+	Came back from the reedy islands,<br />
+	Clamorous for their morning banquet.<br />
+	<br />
+	Three whole days and nights alternate<br />
+	Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls<br />
+	Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,<br />
+	Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,<br />
+	Till the sea-gulls came no longer,<br />
+	And upon the sands lay nothing<br />
+	But the skeleton of Nahma.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Ship"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Fishing" title="Previous&mdash;Hiawatha's Fishing"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Castle" title="Next&mdash;The Castle-Builder"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/ship.jpg"><img src="images/ship-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Ship" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Building of the Ship</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	"Build me straight, O worthy Master!<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,<br />
+	That shall laugh at all disaster,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"<br />
+	<br />
+	The merchant's word<br />
+	Delighted the Master heard;<br />
+	For his heart was in his work, and the heart<br />
+	Giveth grace unto every Art.<br />
+	A quiet smile played round his lips,<br />
+	As the eddies and dimples of the tide<br />
+	Play round the bows of ships,<br />
+	That steadily at anchor ride.<br />
+	And with a voice that was full of glee,<br />
+	He answered, "Erelong we will launch<br />
+	A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,<br />
+	As ever weathered a wintry sea!"<br />
+	And first with nicest skill and art,<br />
+	Perfect and finished in every part,<br />
+	A little model the Master wrought,<br />
+	Which should be to the larger plan<br />
+	What the child is to the man,<br />
+	Its counterpart in miniature;<br />
+	That with a hand more swift and sure<br />
+	The greater labor might be brought<br />
+	To answer to his inward thought.<br />
+	And as he labored, his mind ran o'er<br />
+	The various ships that were built of yore,<br />
+	And above them all, and strangest of all<br />
+	Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,<br />
+	Whose picture was hanging on the wall,<br />
+	With bows and stern raised high in air,<br />
+	And balconies hanging here and there,<br />
+	And signal lanterns and flags afloat,<br />
+	And eight round towers, like those that frown<br />
+	From some old castle, looking down<br />
+	Upon the drawbridge and the moat.<br />
+	And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,<br />
+	Shall be of another form than this!"<br />
+	It was of another form, indeed;<br />
+	Built for freight, and yet for speed,<br />
+	A beautiful and gallant craft;<br />
+	Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,<br />
+	Pressing down upon sail and mast,<br />
+	Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;<br />
+	Broad in the beam, but sloping aft<br />
+	With graceful curve and slow degrees,<br />
+	That she might be docile to the helm,<br />
+	And that the currents of parted seas,<br />
+	Closing behind, with mighty force,<br />
+	Might aid and not impede her course.<br />
+	<br />
+	In the ship-yard stood the Master,<br />
+	With the model of the vessel,<br />
+	That should laugh at all disaster,<br />
+	And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!<br />
+	<br />
+	Covering many a rood of ground,<br />
+	Lay the timber piled around;<br />
+	Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,<br />
+	And scattered here and there, with these,<br />
+	The knarred and crooked cedar knees;<br />
+	Brought from regions far away,<br />
+	From Pascagoula's sunny bay,<br />
+	And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!<br />
+	Ah! what a wondrous thing it is<br />
+	To note how many wheels of toil<br />
+	One thought, one word, can set in motion!<br />
+	There's not a ship that sails the ocean,<br />
+	But every climate, every soil,<br />
+	Must bring its tribute, great or small,<br />
+	And help to build the wooden wall!<br />
+	<br />
+	The sun was rising o'er the sea,<br />
+	And long the level shadows lay,<br />
+	As if they, too, the beams would be<br />
+	Of some great, airy argosy,<br />
+	Framed and launched in a single day.<br />
+	That silent architect, the sun,<br />
+	Had hewn and laid them every one,<br />
+	Ere the work of man was yet begun.<br />
+	Beside the Master, when he spoke,<br />
+	A youth, against an anchor leaning,<br />
+	Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.<br />
+	Only the long waves, as they broke<br />
+	In ripples on the pebbly beach,<br />
+	Interrupted the old man's speech.<br />
+	<br />
+	Beautiful they were, in sooth,<br />
+	The old man and the fiery youth!<br />
+	The old man, in whose busy brain<br />
+	Many a ship that sailed the main<br />
+	Was modelled o'er and o'er again;&mdash;<br />
+	The fiery youth, who was to be<br />
+	The heir of his dexterity,<br />
+	The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,<br />
+	When he had built and launched from land<br />
+	What the elder head had planned.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!<br />
+	Lay square the blocks upon the slip,<br />
+	And follow well this plan of mine.<br />
+	Choose the timbers with greatest care;<br />
+	Of all that is unsound beware;<br />
+	For only what is sound and strong<br />
+	To this vessel shall belong.<br />
+	Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine<br />
+	Here together shall combine.<br />
+	A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,<br />
+	And the UNION be her name!<br />
+	For the day that gives her to the sea<br />
+	Shall give my daughter unto thee!"<br />
+	<br />
+	The Master's word<br />
+	Enraptured the young man heard;<br />
+	And as he turned his face aside,<br />
+	With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,<br />
+	Standing before<br />
+	Her father's door,<br />
+	He saw the form of his promised bride.<br />
+	The sun shone on her golden hair,<br />
+	And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,<br />
+	With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.<br />
+	Like a beauteous barge was she,<br />
+	Still at rest on the sandy beach,<br />
+	Just beyond the billow's reach;<br />
+	But he<br />
+	Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!<br />
+	<br />
+	Ah, how skilful grows the hand<br />
+	That obeyeth Love's command!<br />
+	It is the heart, and not the brain,<br />
+	That to the highest doth attain,<br />
+	And he who followeth Love's behest<br />
+	Far excelleth all the rest!<br />
+	Thus with the rising of the sun<br />
+	Was the noble task begun,<br />
+	And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds<br />
+	Were heard the intermingled sounds<br />
+	Of axes and of mallets, plied<br />
+	With vigorous arms on every side;<br />
+	Plied so deftly and so well,<br />
+	That, ere the shadows of evening fell,<br />
+	The keel of oak for a noble ship,<br />
+	Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,<br />
+	Was lying ready, and stretched along<br />
+	The blocks, well placed upon the slip.<br />
+	Happy, thrice happy, every one<br />
+	Who sees his labor well begun,<br />
+	And not perplexed and multiplied,<br />
+	By idly waiting for time and tide!<br />
+	<br />
+	And when the hot, long day was o'er,<br />
+	The young man at the Master's door<br />
+	Sat with the maiden calm and still,<br />
+	And within the porch, a little more<br />
+	Removed beyond the evening chill,<br />
+	The father sat, and told them tales<br />
+	Of wrecks in the great September gales,<br />
+	Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,<br />
+	And ships that never came back again,<br />
+	The chance and change of a sailor's life,<br />
+	Want and plenty, rest and strife,<br />
+	His roving fancy, like the wind,<br />
+	That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,<br />
+	And the magic charm of foreign lands,<br />
+	With shadows of palms, and shining sands,<br />
+	Where the tumbling surf,<br />
+	O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,<br />
+	Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,<br />
+	As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.<br />
+	And the trembling maiden held her breath<br />
+	At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,<br />
+	With all its terror and mystery,<br />
+	The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,<br />
+	That divides and yet unites mankind!<br />
+	And whenever the old man paused, a gleam<br />
+	From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume<br />
+	The silent group in the twilight gloom,<br />
+	And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;<br />
+	And for a moment one might mark<br />
+	What had been hidden by the dark,<br />
+	That the head of the maiden lay at rest,<br />
+	Tenderly, on the young man's breast!<br />
+	<br />
+	Day by day the vessel grew,<br />
+	With timbers fashioned strong and true,<br />
+	Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,<br />
+	Till, framed with perfect symmetry,<br />
+	A skeleton ship rose up to view!<br />
+	And around the bows and along the side<br />
+	The heavy hammers and mallets plied,<br />
+	Till after many a week, at length,<br />
+	Wonderful for form and strength,<br />
+	Sublime in its enormous bulk,<br />
+	Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!<br />
+	And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,<br />
+	Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething<br />
+	Caldron, that glowed,<br />
+	And overflowed<br />
+	With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.<br />
+	And amid the clamors<br />
+	Of clattering hammers,<br />
+	He who listened heard now and then<br />
+	The song of the Master and his men:&mdash;<br />
+	<br />
+	"Build me straight, O worthy Master,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,<br />
+	That shall laugh at all disaster,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"<br />
+	<br />
+	With oaken brace and copper band,<br />
+	Lay the rudder on the sand,<br />
+	That, like a thought, should have control<br />
+	Over the movement of the whole;<br />
+	And near it the anchor, whose giant hand<br />
+	Would reach down and grapple with the land,<br />
+	And immovable and fast<br />
+	Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!<br />
+	And at the bows an image stood,<br />
+	By a cunning artist carved in wood,<br />
+	With robes of white, that far behind<br />
+	Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.<br />
+	It was not shaped in a classic mould,<br />
+	Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,<br />
+	Or Naiad rising from the water,<br />
+	But modelled from the Master's daughter!<br />
+	On many a dreary and misty night,<br />
+	'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,<br />
+	Speeding along through the rain and the dark,<br />
+	Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,<br />
+	The pilot of some phantom bark,<br />
+	Guiding the vessel, in its flight,<br />
+	By a path none other knows aright!<br />
+	<br />
+	Behold, at last,<br />
+	Each tall and tapering mast<br />
+	Is swung into its place;<br />
+	Shrouds and stays<br />
+	Holding it firm and fast!<br />
+	<br />
+	Long ago,<br />
+	In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,<br />
+	When upon mountain and plain<br />
+	Lay the snow,<br />
+	They fell,&mdash;those lordly pines!<br />
+	Those grand, majestic pines!<br />
+	'Mid shouts and cheers<br />
+	The jaded steers,<br />
+	Panting beneath the goad,<br />
+	Dragged down the weary, winding road<br />
+	Those captive kings so straight and tall,<br />
+	To be shorn of their streaming hair,<br />
+	And naked and bare,<br />
+	To feel the stress and the strain<br />
+	Of the wind and the reeling main,<br />
+	Whose roar<br />
+	Would remind them forevermore<br />
+	Of their native forests they should not see again.<br />
+	<br />
+	And everywhere<br />
+	The slender, graceful spars<br />
+	Poise aloft in the air,<br />
+	And at the mast-head,<br />
+	White, blue, and red,<br />
+	A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.<br />
+	Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,<br />
+	In foreign harbors shall behold<br />
+	That flag unrolled,<br />
+	'T will be as a friendly hand<br />
+	Stretched out from his native land,<br />
+	Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!<br />
+	<br />
+	All is finished! and at length<br />
+	Has come the bridal day<br />
+	Of beauty and of strength.<br />
+	To-day the vessel shall be launched!<br />
+	With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,<br />
+	And o'er the bay,<br />
+	Slowly, in all its splendors dight,<br />
+	The great sun rises to behold the sight.<br />
+	<br />
+	The ocean old,<br />
+	Centuries old,<br />
+	Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,<br />
+	Paces restless to and fro,<br />
+	Up and down the sands of gold.<br />
+	His beating heart is not at rest;<br />
+	And far and wide,<br />
+	With ceaseless flow,<br />
+	His beard of snow<br />
+	Heaves with the heaving of his breast.<br />
+	He waits impatient for his bride.<br />
+	There she stands,<br />
+	With her foot upon the sands,<br />
+	Decked with flags and streamers gay,<br />
+	In honor of her marriage day,<br />
+	Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,<br />
+	Round her like a veil descending,<br />
+	Ready to be<br />
+	The bride of the gray old sea.<br />
+	<br />
+	On the deck another bride<br />
+	Is standing by her lover's side.<br />
+	Shadows from the flags and shrouds,<br />
+	Like the shadows cast by clouds,<br />
+	Broken by many a sudden fleck,<br />
+	Fall around them on the deck.<br />
+	<br />
+	The prayer is said,<br />
+	The service read,<br />
+	The joyous bridegroom bows his head;<br />
+	And in tears the good old Master<br />
+	Shakes the brown hand of his son,<br />
+	Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek<br />
+	In silence, for he cannot speak,<br />
+	And ever faster<br />
+	Down his own the tears begin to run.<br />
+	The worthy pastor&mdash;<br />
+	The shepherd of that wandering flock,<br />
+	That has the ocean for its wold,<br />
+	That has the vessel for its fold,<br />
+	Leaping ever from rock to rock<br />
+	Spake, with accents mild and clear,<br />
+	Words of warning, words of cheer,<br />
+	But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.<br />
+	He knew the chart<br />
+	Of the sailor's heart,<br />
+	All its pleasures and its griefs,<br />
+	All its shallows and rocky reefs,<br />
+	All those secret currents, that flow<br />
+	With such resistless undertow,<br />
+	And lift and drift, with terrible force,<br />
+	The will from its moorings and its course.<br />
+	Therefore he spake, and thus said he:&mdash;<br />
+	"Like unto ships far off at sea,<br />
+	Outward or homeward bound, are we.<br />
+	Before, behind, and all around,<br />
+	Floats and swings the horizon's bound,<br />
+	Seems at its distant rim to rise<br />
+	And climb the crystal wall of the skies,<br />
+	And then again to turn and sink,<br />
+	As if we could slide from its outer brink.<br />
+	Ah! it is not the sea,<br />
+	It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,<br />
+	But ourselves<br />
+	That rock and rise<br />
+	With endless and uneasy motion,<br />
+	Now touching the very skies,<br />
+	Now sinking into the depths of ocean.<br />
+	Ah! if our souls but poise and swing<br />
+	Like the compass in its brazen ring,<br />
+	Ever level and ever true<br />
+	To the toil and the task we have to do,<br />
+	We shall sail securely, and safely reach<br />
+	The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach<br />
+	The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,<br />
+	Will be those of joy and not of fear!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Then the Master,<br />
+	With a gesture of command,<br />
+	Waved his hand;<br />
+	And at the word,<br />
+	Loud and sudden there was heard,<br />
+	All around them and below,<br />
+	The sound of hammers, blow on blow,<br />
+	Knocking away the shores and spurs.<br />
+	And see! she stirs!<br />
+	She starts,&mdash;she moves,&mdash;she seems to feel<br />
+	The thrill of life along her keel,<br />
+	And, spurning with her foot the ground,<br />
+	With one exulting, joyous bound,<br />
+	She leaps into the ocean's arms!<br />
+	<br />
+	And lo! from the assembled crowd<br />
+	There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,<br />
+	That to the ocean seemed to say,<br />
+	"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,<br />
+	Take her to thy protecting arms,<br />
+	With all her youth and all her charms!"<br />
+	<br />
+	How beautiful she is! How fair<br />
+	She lies within those arms, that press<br />
+	Her form with many a soft caress<br />
+	Of tenderness and watchful care!<br />
+	Sail forth into the sea, O ship!<br />
+	Through wind and wave, right onward steer!<br />
+	The moistened eye, the trembling lip,<br />
+	Are not the signs of doubt or fear.<br />
+	<br />
+	Sail forth into the sea of life,<br />
+	O gentle, loving, trusting wife,<br />
+	And safe from all adversity<br />
+	Upon the bosom of that sea<br />
+	Thy comings and thy goings be!<br />
+	For gentleness and love and trust<br />
+	Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;<br />
+	And in the wreck of noble lives<br />
+	Something immortal still survives!<br />
+	<br />
+	Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!<br />
+	Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!<br />
+	Humanity with all its fears,<br />
+	With all the hopes of future years,<br />
+	Is hanging breathless on thy fate!<br />
+	We know what Master laid thy keel,<br />
+	What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,<br />
+	Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,<br />
+	What anvils rang, what hammers beat,<br />
+	In what a forge and what a heat<br />
+	Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!<br />
+	Fear not each sudden sound and shock,<br />
+	'T is of the wave and not the rock;<br />
+	'T is but the flapping of the sail,<br />
+	And not a rent made by the gale!<br />
+	In spite of rock and tempest's roar,<br />
+	In spite of false lights on the shore,<br />
+	Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!<br />
+	Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,<br />
+	Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,<br />
+	Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,<br />
+	Are all with thee,&mdash;are all with thee!<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Castle"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Ship" title="Previous&mdash;The Building of the Ship"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Revere" title="Next&mdash;Paul Revere's Ride"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/castle.jpg"><img src="images/castle-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Castle-Builder" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Castle-Builder</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,<br />
+	A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;And towers that touch imaginary skies.<br />
+	<br />
+	A fearless rider on his father's knee,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;An eager listener unto stories told<br />
+	At the Round Table of the nursery,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Of heroes and adventures manifold.<br />
+	<br />
+	There will be other towers for thee to build;<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;There will be other steeds for thee to ride;<br />
+	There will be other legends, and all filled<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With greater marvels and more glorified.<br />
+	<br />
+	Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Rising and reaching upward to the skies;<br />
+	Listening to voices in the upper air,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Revere"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Castle" title="Previous&mdash;The Castle-Builder"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Serpent" title="Next&mdash;The Building of the Long Serpent"><strong>&raquo;</strong></a>
+</div>
+<a href="images/revere.jpg"><img src="images/revere-thumbnail.jpg" alt="Paul Revere's Ride" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>Paul Revere's Ride</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	Listen, my children, and you shall hear<br />
+	Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,<br />
+	On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;<br />
+	Hardly a man is now alive<br />
+	Who remembers that famous day and year.<br />
+	<br />
+	He said to his friend, "If the British march<br />
+	By land or sea from the town to-night,<br />
+	Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch<br />
+	Of the North Church tower as a signal light,&mdash;<br />
+	One, if by land, and two, if by sea;<br />
+	And I on the opposite shore will be,<br />
+	Ready to ride and spread the alarm<br />
+	Through every Middlesex village and farm,<br />
+	For the country folk to be up and to arm."<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar<br />
+	Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,<br />
+	Just as the moon rose over the bay,<br />
+	Where swinging wide at her moorings lay<br />
+	The Somerset, British man-of-war;<br />
+	A phantom ship, with each mast and spar<br />
+	Across the moon like a prison bar,<br />
+	And a huge black hulk, that was magnified<br />
+	By its own reflection in the tide.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,<br />
+	Wanders and watches with eager ears,<br />
+	Till in the silence around him he hears<br />
+	The muster of men at the barrack door,<br />
+	The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,<br />
+	And the measured tread of the grenadiers,<br />
+	Marching down to their boats on the shore.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,<br />
+	By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,<br />
+	To the belfry-chamber overhead,<br />
+	And startled the pigeons from their perch<br />
+	On the sombre rafters, that round him made<br />
+	Masses and moving shapes of shade,&mdash;<br />
+	By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,<br />
+	To the highest window in the wall,<br />
+	Where he paused to listen and look down<br />
+	A moment on the roofs of the town,<br />
+	And the moonlight flowing over all.<br />
+	<br />
+	Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,<br />
+	In their night-encampment on the hill,<br />
+	Wrapped in silence so deep and still<br />
+	That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,<br />
+	The watchful night-wind, as it went<br />
+	Creeping along from tent to tent,<br />
+	And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"<br />
+	A moment only he feels the spell<br />
+	Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread<br />
+	Of the lonely belfry and the dead;<br />
+	For suddenly all his thoughts are bent<br />
+	On a shadowy something far away,<br />
+	Where the river widens to meet the bay,&mdash;<br />
+	A line of black that bends and floats<br />
+	On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.<br />
+	<br />
+	Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,<br />
+	Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride<br />
+	On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.<br />
+	Now he patted his horse's side,<br />
+	Now gazed at the landscape far and near,<br />
+	Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,<br />
+	And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;<br />
+	But mostly he watched with eager search<br />
+	The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,<br />
+	As it rose above the graves on the hill,<br />
+	Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.<br />
+	And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height<br />
+	A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!<br />
+	He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,<br />
+	But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,<br />
+	A second lamp in the belfry burns!<br />
+	A hurry of hoofs in a village street,<br />
+	A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,<br />
+	And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark<br />
+	Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:<br />
+	That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,<br />
+	The fate of a nation was riding that night;<br />
+	And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,<br />
+	Kindled the land into flame with its heat.<br />
+	<br />
+	He has left the village and mounted the steep,<br />
+	And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,<br />
+	Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;<br />
+	And under the alders that skirt its edge,<br />
+	Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,<br />
+	Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.<br />
+	<br />
+	It was twelve by the village clock,<br />
+	When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.<br />
+	He heard the crowing of the cock,<br />
+	And the barking of the farmer's dog,<br />
+	And felt the damp of the river fog,<br />
+	That rises after the sun goes down.<br />
+	<br />
+	It was one by the village clock,<br />
+	When he galloped into Lexington.<br />
+	He saw the gilded weathercock<br />
+	Swim in the moonlight as he passed,<br />
+	And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,<br />
+	Gaze at him with a spectral glare,<br />
+	As if they already stood aghast<br />
+	At the bloody work they would look upon.<br />
+	<br />
+	It was two by the village clock,<br />
+	When he came to the bridge in Concord town<br />
+	He heard the bleating of the flock,<br />
+	And the twitter of birds among the trees,<br />
+	And felt the breath of the morning breeze<br />
+	Blowing over the meadows brown.<br />
+	And one was safe and asleep in his bed<br />
+	Who at the bridge would be first to fall,<br />
+	Who that day would be lying dead,<br />
+	Pierced by a British musket-ball.<br />
+	<br />
+	You know the rest. In the books you have read.<br />
+	How the British Regulars fired and fled,&mdash;<br />
+	How the farmers gave them ball for ball,<br />
+	From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,<br />
+	Chasing the red-coats down the lane,<br />
+	Then crossing the fields to emerge again<br />
+	Under the trees at the turn of the road,<br />
+	And only pausing to fire and load.<br />
+	<br />
+	So through the night rode Paul Revere;<br />
+	And so through the night went his cry of alarm<br />
+	To every Middlesex village and farm,&mdash;<br />
+	A cry of defiance and not of fear,<br />
+	A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,<br />
+	And a word that shall echo forevermore!<br />
+	For, borne on the night-wind of the Past<br />
+	Through all our history, to the last,<br />
+	In the hour of darkness and peril and need,<br />
+	The people will waken and listen to hear<br />
+	The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed<br />
+	And the midnight message of Paul Revere.<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+<a name="Serpent"></a>
+<div class="redirection">
+<a href="#Contents" title="Contents&mdash;The Children's Own Longfellow">i</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<a href="#Revere" title="Previous&mdash;Paul Revere's Ride"><strong>&laquo;</strong></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;
+<strong>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</strong>
+</div>
+<a href="images/serpent.jpg"><img src="images/serpent-thumbnail.jpg" alt="The Building of the Long Serpent" border="0" /></a>
+
+<h4>The Building of the Long Serpent</h4>
+<blockquote>
+	Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In his ship-yard by the sea,<br />
+	Whistling, said, "It would bewilder<br />
+	Any man but Thorberg Skafting,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Any man but me!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Near him lay the Dragon stranded,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Built of old by Raud the Strong,<br />
+	And King Olaf had commanded<br />
+	He should build another Dragon,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Twice as large and long.<br />
+	<br />
+	Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;As he sat with half-closed eyes,<br />
+	And his head turned sideways, drafting<br />
+	That new vessel for King Olaf<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Twice the Dragon's size.<br />
+	<br />
+	Round him busily hewed and hammered<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Mallet huge and heavy axe;<br />
+	Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;<br />
+	Whirred the wheels, that into rigging<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Spun the shining flax!<br />
+	<br />
+	All this tumult heard the master,&mdash;<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;It was music to his ear;<br />
+	Fancy whispered all the faster,<br />
+	"Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For a hundred year!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Workmen sweating at the forges<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Fashioned iron bolt and bar,<br />
+	Like a warlock's midnight orgies<br />
+	Smoked and bubbled the black caldron<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With the boiling tar.<br />
+	<br />
+	Did the warlocks mingle in it,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Thorberg Skafting, any curse?<br />
+	Could you not be gone a minute<br />
+	But some mischief must be doing,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Turning bad to worse?<br />
+	<br />
+	'T was an ill wind that came wafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;From his homestead words of woe;<br />
+	To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,<br />
+	Oft repeating to his workmen,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Build ye thus and so.<br />
+	<br />
+	After long delays returning<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Came the master back by night;<br />
+	To his ship-yard longing, yearning,<br />
+	Hurried he, and did not leave it<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Till the morning's light.<br />
+	<br />
+	"Come and see my ship, my darling!"<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the morrow said the King;<br />
+	"Finished now from keel to carling;<br />
+	Never yet was seen in Norway<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Such a wondrous thing!"<br />
+	<br />
+	In the ship-yard, idly talking,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;At the ship the workmen stared:<br />
+	Some one, all their labor balking,<br />
+	Down her sides had cut deep gashes,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Not a plank was spared!<br />
+	<br />
+	"Death be to the evil-doer!"<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With an oath King Olaf spoke!<br />
+	"But rewards to his pursuer!"<br />
+	And with wrath his face grew redder<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Than his scarlet cloak.<br />
+	<br />
+	Straight the master-builder, smiling,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Answered thus the angry King:<br />
+	"Cease blaspheming and reviling,<br />
+	Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Who has done this thing!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Till the King, delighted, swore,<br />
+	With much lauding and much thanking,<br />
+	"Handsomer is now my Dragon<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Than she was before!"<br />
+	<br />
+	Seventy ells and four extended<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;On the grass the vessel's keel;<br />
+	High above it, gilt and splendid,<br />
+	Rose the figure-head ferocious<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;With its crest of steel.<br />
+	<br />
+	Then they launched her from the tressels,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;In the ship-yard by the sea;<br />
+	She was the grandest of all vessels,<br />
+	Never ship was built in Norway<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;Half so fine as she!<br />
+	<br />
+	The Long Serpent was she christened,<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!<br />
+	They who to the Saga listened<br />
+	Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting<br />
+	  &nbsp;&nbsp;For a hundred year!<br />
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<hr width="80%" size="2" />
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by 
+Henry W. Longfellow
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+</body>
+</html>
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@@ -0,0 +1,2588 @@
+Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. 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: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Posting Date: March 16, 2014 [EBook #9080]
+Release Date: October, 2005
+First Posted: September 3, 2003
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW
+
+Illustrated
+
+1908
+
+
+
+
+Publishers' Note
+
+    Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his
+    poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with
+    youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet
+    best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers
+    that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these
+    poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American
+    artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands
+    of young folks and their parents.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Part the First
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA:
+    Hiawatha's Sailing
+    Hiawatha's Fishing
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+    And children coming home from school
+      Look in at the open door
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+    And he dropped his line of cedar
+      Through the clear, transparent water
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+    The sun shone on her golden hair,
+      And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+    A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+      And towers that touch imaginary skies
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+    "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+      For a hundred year!"
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast ]
+
+
+
+THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+
+  It was the schooner Hesperus,
+    That sailed the wintry sea;
+  And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+    To bear him company.
+
+  Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+  And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+    That ope in the month of May.
+
+  The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+    His pipe was in his mouth,
+  And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+    The smoke now West, now South.
+
+  Then up and spake an old Sailor,
+    Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+  "I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+    For I fear a hurricane.
+
+  "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+    And to-night no moon we see!"
+  The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+    And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+  Colder and louder blew the wind,
+    A gale from the Northeast,
+  The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+    And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+  Down came the storm, and smote amain
+    The vessel in its strength;
+  She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
+    Then leaped her cable's length.
+
+  "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+    And do not tremble so;
+  For I can weather the roughest gale
+    That ever wind did blow."
+
+  He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+    Against the stinging blast;
+  He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+    And bound her to the mast.
+
+  "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
+    And he steered for the open sea.
+
+  "O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+    In such an angry sea!"
+
+  "O father! I see a gleaming light,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  But the father answered never a word,
+    A frozen corpse was he.
+
+  Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+    With his face turned to the skies,
+  The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+    On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+  Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+    That saved she might be;
+  And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+    On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+  And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+  Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+    Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
+
+  And ever the fitful gusts between
+    A sound came from the land;
+  It was the sound of the trampling surf
+    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+  The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+    She drifted a dreary wreck,
+  And a whooping billow swept the crew
+    Like icicles from her deck.
+
+  She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+    Looked soft as carded wool,
+  But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+    Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+  Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+    With the masts went by the board;
+  Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+  At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+    A fisherman stood aghast,
+  To see the form of a maiden fair,
+    Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+  The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+    The salt tears in her eyes;
+  And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+    On the billows fall and rise.
+
+  Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
+    In the midnight and the snow!
+  Christ save us all from a death like this,
+    On the reef of Norman's Woe!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+      And children coming home from school
+        Look in at the open door ]
+
+
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+
+  Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+    The village smithy stands;
+  The smith, a mighty man is he,
+    With large and sinewy hands;
+  And the muscles of his brawny arms
+    Are strong as iron bands.
+
+  His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+    His face is like the tan;
+  His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+    He earns whate'er he can,
+  And looks the whole world in the face,
+    For he owes not any man.
+
+  Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+    You can hear his bellows blow;
+  You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+    With measured beat and slow,
+  Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+    When the evening sun is low.
+
+  And children coming home from school
+    Look in at the open door;
+  They love to see the flaming forge,
+    And hear the bellows roar,
+  And catch the burning sparks that fly
+    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+  He goes on Sunday to the church,
+    And sits among his boys;
+  He hears the parson pray and preach,
+    He hears his daughter's voice,
+  Singing in the village choir,
+    And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+  It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+    Singing in Paradise!
+  He needs must think of her once more,
+    How in the grave she lies;
+  And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+    A tear out of his eyes.
+
+  Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+    Onward through life he goes;
+  Each morning sees some task begin,
+    Each evening sees it close;
+  Something attempted, something done,
+    Has earned a night's repose.
+
+  Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+    For the lesson thou hast taught!
+  Thus at the flaming forge of life
+    Our fortunes must be wrought;
+  Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+    Each burning deed and thought.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music ]
+
+
+
+  EVANGELINE
+
+
+  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 hemlock,
+  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 doorway.
+  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 sounds 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.
+  Fair 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 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 thought 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 with 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 foes 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 tomorrow.
+  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 a 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 manoeuvre,
+  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 mists 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 was the evening passed. 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,
+  Stript of its 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 Dunquerque_,
+  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 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,
+  While 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 mournful 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 was 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 disconsolate 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 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 milk-maid.
+  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 tearful eyes 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 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 awoke 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 sea-side,
+  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.
+  'T was 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.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+      And he dropped his line of cedar
+        Through the clear, transparent water ]
+
+
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
+
+
+  HIAWATHA'S SAILING
+
+  "Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
+  Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
+  Growing by the rushing river,
+  Tall and stately in the valley!
+  I a light canoe will build me,
+  Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
+  That shall float upon the river,
+  Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+  Like a yellow water-lily!
+
+  "Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
+  Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
+  For the Summer-time is coming,
+  And the sun is warm in heaven,
+  And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
+
+  Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
+  In the solitary forest,
+  By the rushing Taquamenaw,
+  When the birds were singing gayly,
+  In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
+  And the sun, from sleep awaking,
+  Started up and said, "Behold me!
+  Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
+
+  And the tree with all its branches
+  Rustled in the breeze of morning,
+  Saying, with a sigh of patience,
+  "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  With his knife the tree he girdled;
+  Just beneath its lowest branches,
+  Just above the roots, he cut it,
+  Till the sap came oozing outward;
+  Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
+  Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
+  With a wooden wedge he raised it,
+  Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
+
+  "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
+  Of your strong and pliant branches,
+  My canoe to make more steady,
+  Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
+
+  Through the summit of the Cedar
+  Went a sound, a cry of horror,
+  Went a murmur of resistance;
+  But it whispered, bending downward,
+  "Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
+  Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
+  Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
+  Like two bended bows together.
+
+  "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
+  Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
+  My canoe to bind together,
+  So to bind the ends together
+  That the water may not enter,
+  That the river may not wet me!"
+
+  And the Larch, with all its fibres,
+  Shivered in the air of morning,
+  Touched his forehead with its tassels,
+  Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
+  "Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  From the earth he tore the fibres,
+  Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
+  Closely sewed the bark together,
+  Bound it closely to the frame-work.
+
+  "Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
+  Of your balsam and your resin,
+  So to close the seams together
+  That the water may not enter,
+  That the river may not wet me!"
+
+  And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
+  Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
+  Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
+  Answered wailing, answered weeping,
+  "Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  And he took the tears of balsam,
+  Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
+  Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
+  Made each crevice safe from water.
+
+  "Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
+  All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
+  I will make a necklace of them,
+  Make a girdle for my beauty,
+  And two stars to deck her bosom!"
+
+  From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
+  With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
+  Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
+  Saying with a drowsy murmur,
+  Through the tangle of his whiskers,
+  "Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  From the ground the quills he gathered,
+  All the little shining arrows,
+  Stained them red and blue and yellow,
+  With the juice of roots and berries;
+  Into his canoe he wrought them,
+  Round its waist a shining girdle,
+  Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
+  On its breast two stars resplendent.
+
+  Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
+  In the valley, by the river,
+  In the bosom of the forest;
+  And the forest's life was in it,
+  All its mystery and its magic,
+  All the lightness of the birch-tree,
+  All the toughness of the cedar,
+  All the larch's supple sinews;
+  And it floated on the river
+  Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+  Like a yellow water-lily.
+
+  Paddles none had Hiawatha,
+  Paddles none he had or needed,
+  For his thoughts as paddles served him,
+  And his wishes served to guide him;
+  Swift or slow at will he glided,
+  Veered to right or left at pleasure.
+
+  Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
+  To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+  Saying, "Help me clear this river
+  Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
+
+  Straight into the river Kwasind
+  Plunged as if he were an otter,
+  Dived as if he were a beaver,
+  Stood up to his waist in water,
+  To his arm-pits in the river,
+  Swam and shouted in the river,
+  Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
+  With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
+  With his feet the ooze and tangle.
+
+  And thus sailed my Hiawatha
+  Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
+  Sailed through all its bends and windings,
+  Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
+  While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+  Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
+
+  Up and down the river went they,
+  In and out among its islands,
+  Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
+  Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
+  Made its passage safe and certain,
+  Made a pathway for the people,
+  From its springs among the mountains,
+  To the waters of Pauwating,
+  To the bay of Taquamenau.
+
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+
+  Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
+  On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar,
+  Of the twisted bark of cedar,
+  Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
+  Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
+  In his birch canoe exulting
+  All alone went Hiawatha.
+
+  Through the clear, transparent water
+  He could see the fishes swimming
+  Far down in the depths below him;
+  See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
+  Like a sunbeam in the water,
+  See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
+  Like a spider on the bottom,
+  On the white and sandy bottom.
+
+  At the stern sat Hiawatha,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar;
+  In his plumes the breeze of morning
+  Played as in the hemlock branches;
+  On the bows, with tail erected,
+  Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
+  In his fur the breeze of morning
+  Played as in the prairie grasses.
+
+  On the white sand of the bottom
+  Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
+  Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
+  Through his gills he breathed the water,
+  With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
+  With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
+
+  There he lay in all his armor;
+  On each side a shield to guard him,
+  Plates of bone upon his forehead,
+  Down his sides and back and shoulders
+  Plates of bone with spines projecting!
+  Painted was he with his war-paints,
+  Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
+  Spots of brown and spots of sable;
+  And he lay there on the bottom,
+  Fanning with his fins of purple,
+  As above him Hiawatha
+  In his birch canoe came sailing,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar.
+
+  "Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,
+  Down into the depths beneath him,
+  "Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
+  Come up from below the water,
+  Let us see which is the stronger!"
+  And he dropped his line of cedar
+  Through the clear, transparent water,
+  Waited vainly for an answer,
+  Long sat waiting for an answer,
+  And repeating loud and louder,
+  "Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
+
+  Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Fanning slowly in the water,
+  Looking up at Hiawatha,
+  Listening to his call and clamor,
+  His unnecessary tumult,
+  Till he wearied of the shouting;
+  And he said to the Kenozha,
+  To the pike, the Maskenozha,
+  "Take the bait of this rude fellow,
+  Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+  In his fingers Hiawatha
+  Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
+  As he drew it in, it tugged so
+  That the birch canoe stood endwise,
+  Like a birch log in the water,
+  With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+  Perched and frisking on the summit.
+
+  Full of scorn was Hiawatha
+  When he saw the fish rise upward,
+  Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
+  Coming nearer, nearer to him,
+  And he shouted through the water,
+  "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+  You are but the pike, Kenozha,
+  You are not the fish I wanted,
+  You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+  Reeling downward to the bottom
+  Sank the pike in great confusion,
+  And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  To the bream, with scales of crimson,
+  "Take the bait of this great boaster,
+  Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+  Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
+  Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  Seized the line of Hiawatha,
+  Swung with all his weight upon it,
+  Made a whirlpool in the water,
+  Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
+  Round and round in gurgling eddies,
+  Till the circles in the water
+  Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
+  Till the water-flags and rushes
+  Nodded on the distant margins.
+
+  But when Hiawatha saw him
+  Slowly rising through the water,
+  Lifting up his disk refulgent,
+  Loud he shouted in derision,
+  "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+  You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  You are not the fish I wanted,
+  You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+  Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
+  Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
+  Heard his challenge of defiance,
+  The unnecessary tumult,
+  Ringing far across the water.
+
+  From the white sand of the bottom
+  Up he rose with angry gesture,
+  Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
+  Clashing all his plates of armor,
+  Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
+  In his wrath he darted upward,
+  Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
+  Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
+  Both canoe and Hiawatha.
+
+  Down into that darksome cavern
+  Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
+  As a log on some black river
+  Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
+  Found himself in utter darkness,
+  Groped about in helpless wonder,
+  Till he felt a great heart beating,
+  Throbbing in that utter darkness.
+
+  And he smote it in his anger,
+  With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
+  Felt the mighty King of Fishes
+  Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
+  Heard the water gurgle round him
+  As he leaped and staggered through it,
+  Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
+
+  Crosswise then did Hiawatha
+  Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
+  Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
+  In the turmoil and confusion,
+  Forth he might be hurled and perish.
+  And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+  Frisked and chattered very gayly,
+  Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
+  Till the labor was completed.
+
+  Then said Hiawatha to him,
+  "O my little friend, the squirrel,
+  Bravely have you toiled to help me;
+  Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
+  And the name which now he gives you;
+  For hereafter and forever
+  Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
+  Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
+
+  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Gasped and quivered in the water,
+  Then was still, and drifted landward
+  Till he grated on the pebbles,
+  Till the listening Hiawatha
+  Heard him grate upon the margin,
+  Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
+  Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
+  Lay there dead upon the margin.
+
+  Then he heard a clang and flapping,
+  As of many wings assembling,
+  Heard a screaming and confusion,
+  As of birds of prey contending,
+  Saw a gleam of light above him,
+  Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
+  Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
+  Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
+  Gazing at him through the opening,
+  Heard them saying to each other,
+  "'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
+
+  And he shouted from below them,
+  Cried exulting from the caverns:
+  "O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
+  I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
+  Make the rifts a little larger,
+  With your claws the openings widen,
+  Set me free from this dark prison,
+  And henceforward and forever
+  Men shall speak of your achievements,
+  Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
+  Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
+
+  And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
+  Toiled with beak and claws together,
+  Made the rifts and openings wider
+  In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
+  And from peril and from prison,
+  From the body of the sturgeon,
+  From the peril of the water,
+  They released my Hiawatha.
+
+  He was standing near his wigwam,
+  On the margin of the water,
+  And he called to old Nokomis,
+  Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
+  Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
+  With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
+
+  "I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
+  Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;
+  "Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
+  Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
+  Drive them not away, Nokomis,
+  They have saved me from great peril
+  In the body of the sturgeon,
+  Wait until their meal is ended,
+  Till their craws are full with feasting,
+  Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
+  To their nests among the marshes;
+  Then bring all your pots and kettles,
+  And make oil for us in Winter."
+
+  And she waited till the sun set,
+  Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
+  Rose above the tranquil water,
+  Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
+  From their banquet rose with clamor,
+  And across the fiery sunset
+  Winged their way to far-off islands,
+  To their nests among the rushes.
+
+  To his sleep went Hiawatha,
+  And Nokomis to her labor,
+  Toiling patient in the moonlight,
+  Till the sun and moon changed places,
+  Till the sky was red with sunrise,
+  And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
+  Came back from the reedy islands,
+  Clamorous for their morning banquet.
+
+  Three whole days and nights alternate
+  Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
+  Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
+  Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
+  Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
+  And upon the sands lay nothing
+  But the skeleton of Nahma.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+      The sun shone on her golden hair,
+        And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair ]
+
+
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+
+  "Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+  That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+  The merchant's word
+  Delighted the Master heard;
+  For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+  Giveth grace unto every Art.
+  A quiet smile played round his lips,
+  As the eddies and dimples of the tide
+  Play round the bows of ships,
+  That steadily at anchor ride.
+  And with a voice that was full of glee,
+  He answered, "Erelong we will launch
+  A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
+  As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
+  And first with nicest skill and art,
+  Perfect and finished in every part,
+  A little model the Master wrought,
+  Which should be to the larger plan
+  What the child is to the man,
+  Its counterpart in miniature;
+  That with a hand more swift and sure
+  The greater labor might be brought
+  To answer to his inward thought.
+  And as he labored, his mind ran o'er
+  The various ships that were built of yore,
+  And above them all, and strangest of all
+  Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
+  Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
+  With bows and stern raised high in air,
+  And balconies hanging here and there,
+  And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
+  And eight round towers, like those that frown
+  From some old castle, looking down
+  Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
+  And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
+  Shall be of another form than this!"
+  It was of another form, indeed;
+  Built for freight, and yet for speed,
+  A beautiful and gallant craft;
+  Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
+  Pressing down upon sail and mast,
+  Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
+  Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
+  With graceful curve and slow degrees,
+  That she might be docile to the helm,
+  And that the currents of parted seas,
+  Closing behind, with mighty force,
+  Might aid and not impede her course.
+
+  In the ship-yard stood the Master,
+  With the model of the vessel,
+  That should laugh at all disaster,
+  And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
+
+  Covering many a rood of ground,
+  Lay the timber piled around;
+  Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
+  And scattered here and there, with these,
+  The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
+  Brought from regions far away,
+  From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
+  And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
+  Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
+  To note how many wheels of toil
+  One thought, one word, can set in motion!
+  There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
+  But every climate, every soil,
+  Must bring its tribute, great or small,
+  And help to build the wooden wall!
+
+  The sun was rising o'er the sea,
+  And long the level shadows lay,
+  As if they, too, the beams would be
+  Of some great, airy argosy,
+  Framed and launched in a single day.
+  That silent architect, the sun,
+  Had hewn and laid them every one,
+  Ere the work of man was yet begun.
+  Beside the Master, when he spoke,
+  A youth, against an anchor leaning,
+  Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
+  Only the long waves, as they broke
+  In ripples on the pebbly beach,
+  Interrupted the old man's speech.
+
+  Beautiful they were, in sooth,
+  The old man and the fiery youth!
+  The old man, in whose busy brain
+  Many a ship that sailed the main
+  Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--
+  The fiery youth, who was to be
+  The heir of his dexterity,
+  The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
+  When he had built and launched from land
+  What the elder head had planned.
+
+  "Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
+  Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
+  And follow well this plan of mine.
+  Choose the timbers with greatest care;
+  Of all that is unsound beware;
+  For only what is sound and strong
+  To this vessel shall belong.
+  Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
+  Here together shall combine.
+  A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
+  And the UNION be her name!
+  For the day that gives her to the sea
+  Shall give my daughter unto thee!"
+
+  The Master's word
+  Enraptured the young man heard;
+  And as he turned his face aside,
+  With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
+  Standing before
+  Her father's door,
+  He saw the form of his promised bride.
+  The sun shone on her golden hair,
+  And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
+  With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
+  Like a beauteous barge was she,
+  Still at rest on the sandy beach,
+  Just beyond the billow's reach;
+  But he
+  Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
+
+  Ah, how skilful grows the hand
+  That obeyeth Love's command!
+  It is the heart, and not the brain,
+  That to the highest doth attain,
+  And he who followeth Love's behest
+  Far excelleth all the rest!
+  Thus with the rising of the sun
+  Was the noble task begun,
+  And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
+  Were heard the intermingled sounds
+  Of axes and of mallets, plied
+  With vigorous arms on every side;
+  Plied so deftly and so well,
+  That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
+  The keel of oak for a noble ship,
+  Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
+  Was lying ready, and stretched along
+  The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
+  Happy, thrice happy, every one
+  Who sees his labor well begun,
+  And not perplexed and multiplied,
+  By idly waiting for time and tide!
+
+  And when the hot, long day was o'er,
+  The young man at the Master's door
+  Sat with the maiden calm and still,
+  And within the porch, a little more
+  Removed beyond the evening chill,
+  The father sat, and told them tales
+  Of wrecks in the great September gales,
+  Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
+  And ships that never came back again,
+  The chance and change of a sailor's life,
+  Want and plenty, rest and strife,
+  His roving fancy, like the wind,
+  That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
+  And the magic charm of foreign lands,
+  With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
+  Where the tumbling surf,
+  O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
+  Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
+  As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
+  And the trembling maiden held her breath
+  At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
+  With all its terror and mystery,
+  The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
+  That divides and yet unites mankind!
+  And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
+  From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
+  The silent group in the twilight gloom,
+  And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
+  And for a moment one might mark
+  What had been hidden by the dark,
+  That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
+  Tenderly, on the young man's breast!
+
+  Day by day the vessel grew,
+  With timbers fashioned strong and true,
+  Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
+  Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
+  A skeleton ship rose up to view!
+  And around the bows and along the side
+  The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
+  Till after many a week, at length,
+  Wonderful for form and strength,
+  Sublime in its enormous bulk,
+  Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
+  And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
+  Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
+  Caldron, that glowed,
+  And overflowed
+  With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
+  And amid the clamors
+  Of clattering hammers,
+  He who listened heard now and then
+  The song of the Master and his men:--
+
+  "Build me straight, O worthy Master,
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+  That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+  With oaken brace and copper band,
+  Lay the rudder on the sand,
+  That, like a thought, should have control
+  Over the movement of the whole;
+  And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
+  Would reach down and grapple with the land,
+  And immovable and fast
+  Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
+  And at the bows an image stood,
+  By a cunning artist carved in wood,
+  With robes of white, that far behind
+  Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
+  It was not shaped in a classic mould,
+  Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
+  Or Naiad rising from the water,
+  But modelled from the Master's daughter!
+  On many a dreary and misty night,
+  'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
+  Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
+  Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
+  The pilot of some phantom bark,
+  Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
+  By a path none other knows aright!
+
+  Behold, at last,
+  Each tall and tapering mast
+  Is swung into its place;
+  Shrouds and stays
+  Holding it firm and fast!
+
+  Long ago,
+  In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
+  When upon mountain and plain
+  Lay the snow,
+  They fell,--those lordly pines!
+  Those grand, majestic pines!
+  'Mid shouts and cheers
+  The jaded steers,
+  Panting beneath the goad,
+  Dragged down the weary, winding road
+  Those captive kings so straight and tall,
+  To be shorn of their streaming hair,
+  And naked and bare,
+  To feel the stress and the strain
+  Of the wind and the reeling main,
+  Whose roar
+  Would remind them forevermore
+  Of their native forests they should not see again.
+
+  And everywhere
+  The slender, graceful spars
+  Poise aloft in the air,
+  And at the mast-head,
+  White, blue, and red,
+  A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
+  Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
+  In foreign harbors shall behold
+  That flag unrolled,
+  'T will be as a friendly hand
+  Stretched out from his native land,
+  Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
+
+  All is finished! and at length
+  Has come the bridal day
+  Of beauty and of strength.
+  To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+  With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+  And o'er the bay,
+  Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
+  The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+  The ocean old,
+  Centuries old,
+  Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+  Paces restless to and fro,
+  Up and down the sands of gold.
+  His beating heart is not at rest;
+  And far and wide,
+  With ceaseless flow,
+  His beard of snow
+  Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+  He waits impatient for his bride.
+  There she stands,
+  With her foot upon the sands,
+  Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+  In honor of her marriage day,
+  Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+  Round her like a veil descending,
+  Ready to be
+  The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+  On the deck another bride
+  Is standing by her lover's side.
+  Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+  Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+  Broken by many a sudden fleck,
+  Fall around them on the deck.
+
+  The prayer is said,
+  The service read,
+  The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
+  And in tears the good old Master
+  Shakes the brown hand of his son,
+  Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
+  In silence, for he cannot speak,
+  And ever faster
+  Down his own the tears begin to run.
+  The worthy pastor--
+  The shepherd of that wandering flock,
+  That has the ocean for its wold,
+  That has the vessel for its fold,
+  Leaping ever from rock to rock
+  Spake, with accents mild and clear,
+  Words of warning, words of cheer,
+  But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
+  He knew the chart
+  Of the sailor's heart,
+  All its pleasures and its griefs,
+  All its shallows and rocky reefs,
+  All those secret currents, that flow
+  With such resistless undertow,
+  And lift and drift, with terrible force,
+  The will from its moorings and its course.
+  Therefore he spake, and thus said he:--
+  "Like unto ships far off at sea,
+  Outward or homeward bound, are we.
+  Before, behind, and all around,
+  Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
+  Seems at its distant rim to rise
+  And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
+  And then again to turn and sink,
+  As if we could slide from its outer brink.
+  Ah! it is not the sea,
+  It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
+  But ourselves
+  That rock and rise
+  With endless and uneasy motion,
+  Now touching the very skies,
+  Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
+  Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
+  Like the compass in its brazen ring,
+  Ever level and ever true
+  To the toil and the task we have to do,
+  We shall sail securely, and safely reach
+  The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
+  The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
+  Will be those of joy and not of fear!"
+
+  Then the Master,
+  With a gesture of command,
+  Waved his hand;
+  And at the word,
+  Loud and sudden there was heard,
+  All around them and below,
+  The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+  Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+  And see! she stirs!
+  She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
+  The thrill of life along her keel,
+  And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+  With one exulting, joyous bound,
+  She leaps into the ocean's arms!
+
+  And lo! from the assembled crowd
+  There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+  That to the ocean seemed to say,
+  "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+  Take her to thy protecting arms,
+  With all her youth and all her charms!"
+
+  How beautiful she is! How fair
+  She lies within those arms, that press
+  Her form with many a soft caress
+  Of tenderness and watchful care!
+  Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+  Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+  The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+  Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+  Sail forth into the sea of life,
+  O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+  And safe from all adversity
+  Upon the bosom of that sea
+  Thy comings and thy goings be!
+  For gentleness and love and trust
+  Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
+  And in the wreck of noble lives
+  Something immortal still survives!
+
+  Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+  Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+  Humanity with all its fears,
+  With all the hopes of future years,
+  Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+  We know what Master laid thy keel,
+  What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+  Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+  What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+  In what a forge and what a heat
+  Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+  Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+  'T is of the wave and not the rock;
+  'T is but the flapping of the sail,
+  And not a rent made by the gale!
+  In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
+  In spite of false lights on the shore,
+  Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+  Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+  Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+  Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
+  Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+      A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+        And towers that touch imaginary skies ]
+
+
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+
+  A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
+    A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
+  A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+    And towers that touch imaginary skies.
+
+  A fearless rider on his father's knee,
+    An eager listener unto stories told
+  At the Round Table of the nursery,
+    Of heroes and adventures manifold.
+
+  There will be other towers for thee to build;
+    There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
+  There will be other legends, and all filled
+    With greater marvels and more glorified.
+
+  Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
+    Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
+  Listening to voices in the upper air,
+    Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+      A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door ]
+
+
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+
+  Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+  Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
+  On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
+  Hardly a man is now alive
+  Who remembers that famous day and year.
+
+  He said to his friend, "If the British march
+  By land or sea from the town to-night,
+  Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
+  Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
+  One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
+  And I on the opposite shore will be,
+  Ready to ride and spread the alarm
+  Through every Middlesex village and farm,
+  For the country folk to be up and to arm."
+
+  Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
+  Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
+  Just as the moon rose over the bay,
+  Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
+  The Somerset, British man-of-war;
+  A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
+  Across the moon like a prison bar,
+  And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
+  By its own reflection in the tide.
+
+  Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
+  Wanders and watches with eager ears,
+  Till in the silence around him he hears
+  The muster of men at the barrack door,
+  The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
+  And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
+  Marching down to their boats on the shore.
+
+  Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
+  By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
+  To the belfry-chamber overhead,
+  And startled the pigeons from their perch
+  On the sombre rafters, that round him made
+  Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
+  By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
+  To the highest window in the wall,
+  Where he paused to listen and look down
+  A moment on the roofs of the town,
+  And the moonlight flowing over all.
+
+  Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
+  In their night-encampment on the hill,
+  Wrapped in silence so deep and still
+  That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
+  The watchful night-wind, as it went
+  Creeping along from tent to tent,
+  And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
+  A moment only he feels the spell
+  Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
+  Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
+  For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
+  On a shadowy something far away,
+  Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
+  A line of black that bends and floats
+  On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
+
+  Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
+  Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
+  On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
+  Now he patted his horse's side,
+  Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
+  Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
+  And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
+  But mostly he watched with eager search
+  The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
+  As it rose above the graves on the hill,
+  Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
+  And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
+  A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
+  He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
+  But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
+  A second lamp in the belfry burns!
+  A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
+  A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
+  And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
+  Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
+  That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
+  The fate of a nation was riding that night;
+  And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
+  Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
+
+  He has left the village and mounted the steep,
+  And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
+  Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
+  And under the alders that skirt its edge,
+  Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
+  Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
+
+  It was twelve by the village clock,
+  When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
+  He heard the crowing of the cock,
+  And the barking of the farmer's dog,
+  And felt the damp of the river fog,
+  That rises after the sun goes down.
+
+  It was one by the village clock,
+  When he galloped into Lexington.
+  He saw the gilded weathercock
+  Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
+  And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
+  Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
+  As if they already stood aghast
+  At the bloody work they would look upon.
+
+  It was two by the village clock,
+  When he came to the bridge in Concord town
+  He heard the bleating of the flock,
+  And the twitter of birds among the trees,
+  And felt the breath of the morning breeze
+  Blowing over the meadows brown.
+  And one was safe and asleep in his bed
+  Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
+  Who that day would be lying dead,
+  Pierced by a British musket-ball.
+
+  You know the rest. In the books you have read.
+  How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
+  How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
+  From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
+  Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
+  Then crossing the fields to emerge again
+  Under the trees at the turn of the road,
+  And only pausing to fire and load.
+
+  So through the night rode Paul Revere;
+  And so through the night went his cry of alarm
+  To every Middlesex village and farm,--
+  A cry of defiance and not of fear,
+  A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
+  And a word that shall echo forevermore!
+  For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
+  Through all our history, to the last,
+  In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
+  The people will waken and listen to hear
+  The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
+  And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+      "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+        For a hundred year!" ]
+
+
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+  Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
+    In his ship-yard by the sea,
+  Whistling, said, "It would bewilder
+  Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
+    Any man but me!"
+
+  Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
+    Built of old by Raud the Strong,
+  And King Olaf had commanded
+  He should build another Dragon,
+    Twice as large and long.
+
+  Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
+    As he sat with half-closed eyes,
+  And his head turned sideways, drafting
+  That new vessel for King Olaf
+    Twice the Dragon's size.
+
+  Round him busily hewed and hammered
+    Mallet huge and heavy axe;
+  Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
+  Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
+    Spun the shining flax!
+
+  All this tumult heard the master,--
+    It was music to his ear;
+  Fancy whispered all the faster,
+  "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!"
+
+  Workmen sweating at the forges
+    Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
+  Like a warlock's midnight orgies
+  Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
+    With the boiling tar.
+
+  Did the warlocks mingle in it,
+    Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
+  Could you not be gone a minute
+  But some mischief must be doing,
+    Turning bad to worse?
+
+  'T was an ill wind that came wafting
+    From his homestead words of woe;
+  To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
+  Oft repeating to his workmen,
+    Build ye thus and so.
+
+  After long delays returning
+    Came the master back by night;
+  To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
+  Hurried he, and did not leave it
+    Till the morning's light.
+
+  "Come and see my ship, my darling!"
+    On the morrow said the King;
+  "Finished now from keel to carling;
+  Never yet was seen in Norway
+    Such a wondrous thing!"
+
+  In the ship-yard, idly talking,
+    At the ship the workmen stared:
+  Some one, all their labor balking,
+  Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
+    Not a plank was spared!
+
+  "Death be to the evil-doer!"
+    With an oath King Olaf spoke!
+  "But rewards to his pursuer!"
+  And with wrath his face grew redder
+    Than his scarlet cloak.
+
+  Straight the master-builder, smiling,
+    Answered thus the angry King:
+  "Cease blaspheming and reviling,
+  Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
+    Who has done this thing!"
+
+  Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
+    Till the King, delighted, swore,
+  With much lauding and much thanking,
+  "Handsomer is now my Dragon
+    Than she was before!"
+
+  Seventy ells and four extended
+    On the grass the vessel's keel;
+  High above it, gilt and splendid,
+  Rose the figure-head ferocious
+    With its crest of steel.
+
+  Then they launched her from the tressels,
+    In the ship-yard by the sea;
+  She was the grandest of all vessels,
+  Never ship was built in Norway
+    Half so fine as she!
+
+  The Long Serpent was she christened,
+    'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
+  They who to the Saga listened
+  Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by 
+Henry W. Longfellow
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+Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. 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: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Posting Date: March 16, 2014 [EBook #9080]
+Release Date: October, 2005
+First Posted: September 3, 2003
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW
+
+Illustrated
+
+1908
+
+
+
+
+Publishers' Note
+
+    Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his
+    poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with
+    youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet
+    best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers
+    that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these
+    poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American
+    artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands
+    of young folks and their parents.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Part the First
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA:
+    Hiawatha's Sailing
+    Hiawatha's Fishing
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+    And children coming home from school
+      Look in at the open door
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+    And he dropped his line of cedar
+      Through the clear, transparent water
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+    The sun shone on her golden hair,
+      And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+    A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+      And towers that touch imaginary skies
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+    "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+      For a hundred year!"
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast ]
+
+
+
+THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+
+  It was the schooner Hesperus,
+    That sailed the wintry sea;
+  And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+    To bear him company.
+
+  Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+  And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+    That ope in the month of May.
+
+  The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+    His pipe was in his mouth,
+  And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+    The smoke now West, now South.
+
+  Then up and spake an old Sailor,
+    Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+  "I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+    For I fear a hurricane.
+
+  "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+    And to-night no moon we see!"
+  The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+    And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+  Colder and louder blew the wind,
+    A gale from the Northeast,
+  The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+    And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+  Down came the storm, and smote amain
+    The vessel in its strength;
+  She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
+    Then leaped her cable's length.
+
+  "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+    And do not tremble so;
+  For I can weather the roughest gale
+    That ever wind did blow."
+
+  He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+    Against the stinging blast;
+  He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+    And bound her to the mast.
+
+  "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
+    And he steered for the open sea.
+
+  "O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+    In such an angry sea!"
+
+  "O father! I see a gleaming light,
+    Oh say, what may it be?"
+  But the father answered never a word,
+    A frozen corpse was he.
+
+  Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+    With his face turned to the skies,
+  The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+    On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+  Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+    That saved she might be;
+  And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+    On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+  And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+  Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+    Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
+
+  And ever the fitful gusts between
+    A sound came from the land;
+  It was the sound of the trampling surf
+    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+  The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+    She drifted a dreary wreck,
+  And a whooping billow swept the crew
+    Like icicles from her deck.
+
+  She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+    Looked soft as carded wool,
+  But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+    Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+  Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+    With the masts went by the board;
+  Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+  At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+    A fisherman stood aghast,
+  To see the form of a maiden fair,
+    Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+  The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+    The salt tears in her eyes;
+  And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+    On the billows fall and rise.
+
+  Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
+    In the midnight and the snow!
+  Christ save us all from a death like this,
+    On the reef of Norman's Woe!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+      And children coming home from school
+        Look in at the open door ]
+
+
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+
+  Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+    The village smithy stands;
+  The smith, a mighty man is he,
+    With large and sinewy hands;
+  And the muscles of his brawny arms
+    Are strong as iron bands.
+
+  His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+    His face is like the tan;
+  His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+    He earns whate'er he can,
+  And looks the whole world in the face,
+    For he owes not any man.
+
+  Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+    You can hear his bellows blow;
+  You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+    With measured beat and slow,
+  Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+    When the evening sun is low.
+
+  And children coming home from school
+    Look in at the open door;
+  They love to see the flaming forge,
+    And hear the bellows roar,
+  And catch the burning sparks that fly
+    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+  He goes on Sunday to the church,
+    And sits among his boys;
+  He hears the parson pray and preach,
+    He hears his daughter's voice,
+  Singing in the village choir,
+    And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+  It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+    Singing in Paradise!
+  He needs must think of her once more,
+    How in the grave she lies;
+  And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+    A tear out of his eyes.
+
+  Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+    Onward through life he goes;
+  Each morning sees some task begin,
+    Each evening sees it close;
+  Something attempted, something done,
+    Has earned a night's repose.
+
+  Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+    For the lesson thou hast taught!
+  Thus at the flaming forge of life
+    Our fortunes must be wrought;
+  Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+    Each burning deed and thought.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music ]
+
+
+
+  EVANGELINE
+
+
+  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 hemlock,
+  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 doorway.
+  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 sounds 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.
+  Fair 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 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 thought 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 with 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 foes 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 tomorrow.
+  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 a 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 manoeuvre,
+  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 mists 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 was the evening passed. 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,
+  Stript of its 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 Dunquerque_,
+  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 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,
+  While 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 mournful 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 was 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 disconsolate 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 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 milk-maid.
+  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 tearful eyes 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 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 awoke 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 sea-side,
+  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.
+  'T was 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.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+      And he dropped his line of cedar
+        Through the clear, transparent water ]
+
+
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
+
+
+  HIAWATHA'S SAILING
+
+  "Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
+  Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
+  Growing by the rushing river,
+  Tall and stately in the valley!
+  I a light canoe will build me,
+  Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
+  That shall float upon the river,
+  Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+  Like a yellow water-lily!
+
+  "Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
+  Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
+  For the Summer-time is coming,
+  And the sun is warm in heaven,
+  And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
+
+  Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
+  In the solitary forest,
+  By the rushing Taquamenaw,
+  When the birds were singing gayly,
+  In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
+  And the sun, from sleep awaking,
+  Started up and said, "Behold me!
+  Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
+
+  And the tree with all its branches
+  Rustled in the breeze of morning,
+  Saying, with a sigh of patience,
+  "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  With his knife the tree he girdled;
+  Just beneath its lowest branches,
+  Just above the roots, he cut it,
+  Till the sap came oozing outward;
+  Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
+  Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
+  With a wooden wedge he raised it,
+  Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
+
+  "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
+  Of your strong and pliant branches,
+  My canoe to make more steady,
+  Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
+
+  Through the summit of the Cedar
+  Went a sound, a cry of horror,
+  Went a murmur of resistance;
+  But it whispered, bending downward,
+  "Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
+  Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
+  Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
+  Like two bended bows together.
+
+  "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
+  Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
+  My canoe to bind together,
+  So to bind the ends together
+  That the water may not enter,
+  That the river may not wet me!"
+
+  And the Larch, with all its fibres,
+  Shivered in the air of morning,
+  Touched his forehead with its tassels,
+  Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
+  "Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  From the earth he tore the fibres,
+  Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
+  Closely sewed the bark together,
+  Bound it closely to the frame-work.
+
+  "Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
+  Of your balsam and your resin,
+  So to close the seams together
+  That the water may not enter,
+  That the river may not wet me!"
+
+  And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
+  Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
+  Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
+  Answered wailing, answered weeping,
+  "Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  And he took the tears of balsam,
+  Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
+  Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
+  Made each crevice safe from water.
+
+  "Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
+  All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
+  I will make a necklace of them,
+  Make a girdle for my beauty,
+  And two stars to deck her bosom!"
+
+  From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
+  With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
+  Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
+  Saying with a drowsy murmur,
+  Through the tangle of his whiskers,
+  "Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
+
+  From the ground the quills he gathered,
+  All the little shining arrows,
+  Stained them red and blue and yellow,
+  With the juice of roots and berries;
+  Into his canoe he wrought them,
+  Round its waist a shining girdle,
+  Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
+  On its breast two stars resplendent.
+
+  Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
+  In the valley, by the river,
+  In the bosom of the forest;
+  And the forest's life was in it,
+  All its mystery and its magic,
+  All the lightness of the birch-tree,
+  All the toughness of the cedar,
+  All the larch's supple sinews;
+  And it floated on the river
+  Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+  Like a yellow water-lily.
+
+  Paddles none had Hiawatha,
+  Paddles none he had or needed,
+  For his thoughts as paddles served him,
+  And his wishes served to guide him;
+  Swift or slow at will he glided,
+  Veered to right or left at pleasure.
+
+  Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
+  To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+  Saying, "Help me clear this river
+  Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
+
+  Straight into the river Kwasind
+  Plunged as if he were an otter,
+  Dived as if he were a beaver,
+  Stood up to his waist in water,
+  To his arm-pits in the river,
+  Swam and shouted in the river,
+  Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
+  With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
+  With his feet the ooze and tangle.
+
+  And thus sailed my Hiawatha
+  Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
+  Sailed through all its bends and windings,
+  Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
+  While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+  Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
+
+  Up and down the river went they,
+  In and out among its islands,
+  Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
+  Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
+  Made its passage safe and certain,
+  Made a pathway for the people,
+  From its springs among the mountains,
+  To the waters of Pauwating,
+  To the bay of Taquamenau.
+
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+
+  Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
+  On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar,
+  Of the twisted bark of cedar,
+  Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
+  Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
+  In his birch canoe exulting
+  All alone went Hiawatha.
+
+  Through the clear, transparent water
+  He could see the fishes swimming
+  Far down in the depths below him;
+  See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
+  Like a sunbeam in the water,
+  See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
+  Like a spider on the bottom,
+  On the white and sandy bottom.
+
+  At the stern sat Hiawatha,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar;
+  In his plumes the breeze of morning
+  Played as in the hemlock branches;
+  On the bows, with tail erected,
+  Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
+  In his fur the breeze of morning
+  Played as in the prairie grasses.
+
+  On the white sand of the bottom
+  Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
+  Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
+  Through his gills he breathed the water,
+  With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
+  With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
+
+  There he lay in all his armor;
+  On each side a shield to guard him,
+  Plates of bone upon his forehead,
+  Down his sides and back and shoulders
+  Plates of bone with spines projecting!
+  Painted was he with his war-paints,
+  Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
+  Spots of brown and spots of sable;
+  And he lay there on the bottom,
+  Fanning with his fins of purple,
+  As above him Hiawatha
+  In his birch canoe came sailing,
+  With his fishing-line of cedar.
+
+  "Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,
+  Down into the depths beneath him,
+  "Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
+  Come up from below the water,
+  Let us see which is the stronger!"
+  And he dropped his line of cedar
+  Through the clear, transparent water,
+  Waited vainly for an answer,
+  Long sat waiting for an answer,
+  And repeating loud and louder,
+  "Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
+
+  Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Fanning slowly in the water,
+  Looking up at Hiawatha,
+  Listening to his call and clamor,
+  His unnecessary tumult,
+  Till he wearied of the shouting;
+  And he said to the Kenozha,
+  To the pike, the Maskenozha,
+  "Take the bait of this rude fellow,
+  Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+  In his fingers Hiawatha
+  Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
+  As he drew it in, it tugged so
+  That the birch canoe stood endwise,
+  Like a birch log in the water,
+  With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+  Perched and frisking on the summit.
+
+  Full of scorn was Hiawatha
+  When he saw the fish rise upward,
+  Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
+  Coming nearer, nearer to him,
+  And he shouted through the water,
+  "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+  You are but the pike, Kenozha,
+  You are not the fish I wanted,
+  You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+  Reeling downward to the bottom
+  Sank the pike in great confusion,
+  And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  To the bream, with scales of crimson,
+  "Take the bait of this great boaster,
+  Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+  Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
+  Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  Seized the line of Hiawatha,
+  Swung with all his weight upon it,
+  Made a whirlpool in the water,
+  Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
+  Round and round in gurgling eddies,
+  Till the circles in the water
+  Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
+  Till the water-flags and rushes
+  Nodded on the distant margins.
+
+  But when Hiawatha saw him
+  Slowly rising through the water,
+  Lifting up his disk refulgent,
+  Loud he shouted in derision,
+  "Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+  You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  You are not the fish I wanted,
+  You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+  Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
+  Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
+  Heard his challenge of defiance,
+  The unnecessary tumult,
+  Ringing far across the water.
+
+  From the white sand of the bottom
+  Up he rose with angry gesture,
+  Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
+  Clashing all his plates of armor,
+  Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
+  In his wrath he darted upward,
+  Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
+  Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
+  Both canoe and Hiawatha.
+
+  Down into that darksome cavern
+  Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
+  As a log on some black river
+  Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
+  Found himself in utter darkness,
+  Groped about in helpless wonder,
+  Till he felt a great heart beating,
+  Throbbing in that utter darkness.
+
+  And he smote it in his anger,
+  With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
+  Felt the mighty King of Fishes
+  Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
+  Heard the water gurgle round him
+  As he leaped and staggered through it,
+  Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
+
+  Crosswise then did Hiawatha
+  Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
+  Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
+  In the turmoil and confusion,
+  Forth he might be hurled and perish.
+  And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+  Frisked and chattered very gayly,
+  Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
+  Till the labor was completed.
+
+  Then said Hiawatha to him,
+  "O my little friend, the squirrel,
+  Bravely have you toiled to help me;
+  Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
+  And the name which now he gives you;
+  For hereafter and forever
+  Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
+  Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
+
+  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Gasped and quivered in the water,
+  Then was still, and drifted landward
+  Till he grated on the pebbles,
+  Till the listening Hiawatha
+  Heard him grate upon the margin,
+  Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
+  Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
+  Lay there dead upon the margin.
+
+  Then he heard a clang and flapping,
+  As of many wings assembling,
+  Heard a screaming and confusion,
+  As of birds of prey contending,
+  Saw a gleam of light above him,
+  Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
+  Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
+  Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
+  Gazing at him through the opening,
+  Heard them saying to each other,
+  "'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
+
+  And he shouted from below them,
+  Cried exulting from the caverns:
+  "O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
+  I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
+  Make the rifts a little larger,
+  With your claws the openings widen,
+  Set me free from this dark prison,
+  And henceforward and forever
+  Men shall speak of your achievements,
+  Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
+  Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
+
+  And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
+  Toiled with beak and claws together,
+  Made the rifts and openings wider
+  In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
+  And from peril and from prison,
+  From the body of the sturgeon,
+  From the peril of the water,
+  They released my Hiawatha.
+
+  He was standing near his wigwam,
+  On the margin of the water,
+  And he called to old Nokomis,
+  Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
+  Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
+  Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
+  With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
+
+  "I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
+  Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;
+  "Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
+  Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
+  Drive them not away, Nokomis,
+  They have saved me from great peril
+  In the body of the sturgeon,
+  Wait until their meal is ended,
+  Till their craws are full with feasting,
+  Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
+  To their nests among the marshes;
+  Then bring all your pots and kettles,
+  And make oil for us in Winter."
+
+  And she waited till the sun set,
+  Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
+  Rose above the tranquil water,
+  Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
+  From their banquet rose with clamor,
+  And across the fiery sunset
+  Winged their way to far-off islands,
+  To their nests among the rushes.
+
+  To his sleep went Hiawatha,
+  And Nokomis to her labor,
+  Toiling patient in the moonlight,
+  Till the sun and moon changed places,
+  Till the sky was red with sunrise,
+  And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
+  Came back from the reedy islands,
+  Clamorous for their morning banquet.
+
+  Three whole days and nights alternate
+  Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
+  Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
+  Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
+  Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
+  And upon the sands lay nothing
+  But the skeleton of Nahma.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+      The sun shone on her golden hair,
+        And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair ]
+
+
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+
+  "Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+  That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+  The merchant's word
+  Delighted the Master heard;
+  For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+  Giveth grace unto every Art.
+  A quiet smile played round his lips,
+  As the eddies and dimples of the tide
+  Play round the bows of ships,
+  That steadily at anchor ride.
+  And with a voice that was full of glee,
+  He answered, "Erelong we will launch
+  A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
+  As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
+  And first with nicest skill and art,
+  Perfect and finished in every part,
+  A little model the Master wrought,
+  Which should be to the larger plan
+  What the child is to the man,
+  Its counterpart in miniature;
+  That with a hand more swift and sure
+  The greater labor might be brought
+  To answer to his inward thought.
+  And as he labored, his mind ran o'er
+  The various ships that were built of yore,
+  And above them all, and strangest of all
+  Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
+  Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
+  With bows and stern raised high in air,
+  And balconies hanging here and there,
+  And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
+  And eight round towers, like those that frown
+  From some old castle, looking down
+  Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
+  And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
+  Shall be of another form than this!"
+  It was of another form, indeed;
+  Built for freight, and yet for speed,
+  A beautiful and gallant craft;
+  Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
+  Pressing down upon sail and mast,
+  Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
+  Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
+  With graceful curve and slow degrees,
+  That she might be docile to the helm,
+  And that the currents of parted seas,
+  Closing behind, with mighty force,
+  Might aid and not impede her course.
+
+  In the ship-yard stood the Master,
+  With the model of the vessel,
+  That should laugh at all disaster,
+  And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
+
+  Covering many a rood of ground,
+  Lay the timber piled around;
+  Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
+  And scattered here and there, with these,
+  The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
+  Brought from regions far away,
+  From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
+  And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
+  Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
+  To note how many wheels of toil
+  One thought, one word, can set in motion!
+  There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
+  But every climate, every soil,
+  Must bring its tribute, great or small,
+  And help to build the wooden wall!
+
+  The sun was rising o'er the sea,
+  And long the level shadows lay,
+  As if they, too, the beams would be
+  Of some great, airy argosy,
+  Framed and launched in a single day.
+  That silent architect, the sun,
+  Had hewn and laid them every one,
+  Ere the work of man was yet begun.
+  Beside the Master, when he spoke,
+  A youth, against an anchor leaning,
+  Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
+  Only the long waves, as they broke
+  In ripples on the pebbly beach,
+  Interrupted the old man's speech.
+
+  Beautiful they were, in sooth,
+  The old man and the fiery youth!
+  The old man, in whose busy brain
+  Many a ship that sailed the main
+  Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--
+  The fiery youth, who was to be
+  The heir of his dexterity,
+  The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
+  When he had built and launched from land
+  What the elder head had planned.
+
+  "Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
+  Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
+  And follow well this plan of mine.
+  Choose the timbers with greatest care;
+  Of all that is unsound beware;
+  For only what is sound and strong
+  To this vessel shall belong.
+  Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
+  Here together shall combine.
+  A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
+  And the UNION be her name!
+  For the day that gives her to the sea
+  Shall give my daughter unto thee!"
+
+  The Master's word
+  Enraptured the young man heard;
+  And as he turned his face aside,
+  With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
+  Standing before
+  Her father's door,
+  He saw the form of his promised bride.
+  The sun shone on her golden hair,
+  And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
+  With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
+  Like a beauteous barge was she,
+  Still at rest on the sandy beach,
+  Just beyond the billow's reach;
+  But he
+  Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
+
+  Ah, how skilful grows the hand
+  That obeyeth Love's command!
+  It is the heart, and not the brain,
+  That to the highest doth attain,
+  And he who followeth Love's behest
+  Far excelleth all the rest!
+  Thus with the rising of the sun
+  Was the noble task begun,
+  And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
+  Were heard the intermingled sounds
+  Of axes and of mallets, plied
+  With vigorous arms on every side;
+  Plied so deftly and so well,
+  That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
+  The keel of oak for a noble ship,
+  Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
+  Was lying ready, and stretched along
+  The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
+  Happy, thrice happy, every one
+  Who sees his labor well begun,
+  And not perplexed and multiplied,
+  By idly waiting for time and tide!
+
+  And when the hot, long day was o'er,
+  The young man at the Master's door
+  Sat with the maiden calm and still,
+  And within the porch, a little more
+  Removed beyond the evening chill,
+  The father sat, and told them tales
+  Of wrecks in the great September gales,
+  Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
+  And ships that never came back again,
+  The chance and change of a sailor's life,
+  Want and plenty, rest and strife,
+  His roving fancy, like the wind,
+  That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
+  And the magic charm of foreign lands,
+  With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
+  Where the tumbling surf,
+  O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
+  Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
+  As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
+  And the trembling maiden held her breath
+  At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
+  With all its terror and mystery,
+  The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
+  That divides and yet unites mankind!
+  And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
+  From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
+  The silent group in the twilight gloom,
+  And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
+  And for a moment one might mark
+  What had been hidden by the dark,
+  That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
+  Tenderly, on the young man's breast!
+
+  Day by day the vessel grew,
+  With timbers fashioned strong and true,
+  Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
+  Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
+  A skeleton ship rose up to view!
+  And around the bows and along the side
+  The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
+  Till after many a week, at length,
+  Wonderful for form and strength,
+  Sublime in its enormous bulk,
+  Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
+  And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
+  Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
+  Caldron, that glowed,
+  And overflowed
+  With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
+  And amid the clamors
+  Of clattering hammers,
+  He who listened heard now and then
+  The song of the Master and his men:--
+
+  "Build me straight, O worthy Master,
+    Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+  That shall laugh at all disaster,
+    And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+  With oaken brace and copper band,
+  Lay the rudder on the sand,
+  That, like a thought, should have control
+  Over the movement of the whole;
+  And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
+  Would reach down and grapple with the land,
+  And immovable and fast
+  Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
+  And at the bows an image stood,
+  By a cunning artist carved in wood,
+  With robes of white, that far behind
+  Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
+  It was not shaped in a classic mould,
+  Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
+  Or Naiad rising from the water,
+  But modelled from the Master's daughter!
+  On many a dreary and misty night,
+  'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
+  Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
+  Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
+  The pilot of some phantom bark,
+  Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
+  By a path none other knows aright!
+
+  Behold, at last,
+  Each tall and tapering mast
+  Is swung into its place;
+  Shrouds and stays
+  Holding it firm and fast!
+
+  Long ago,
+  In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
+  When upon mountain and plain
+  Lay the snow,
+  They fell,--those lordly pines!
+  Those grand, majestic pines!
+  'Mid shouts and cheers
+  The jaded steers,
+  Panting beneath the goad,
+  Dragged down the weary, winding road
+  Those captive kings so straight and tall,
+  To be shorn of their streaming hair,
+  And naked and bare,
+  To feel the stress and the strain
+  Of the wind and the reeling main,
+  Whose roar
+  Would remind them forevermore
+  Of their native forests they should not see again.
+
+  And everywhere
+  The slender, graceful spars
+  Poise aloft in the air,
+  And at the mast-head,
+  White, blue, and red,
+  A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
+  Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
+  In foreign harbors shall behold
+  That flag unrolled,
+  'T will be as a friendly hand
+  Stretched out from his native land,
+  Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
+
+  All is finished! and at length
+  Has come the bridal day
+  Of beauty and of strength.
+  To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+  With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+  And o'er the bay,
+  Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
+  The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+  The ocean old,
+  Centuries old,
+  Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+  Paces restless to and fro,
+  Up and down the sands of gold.
+  His beating heart is not at rest;
+  And far and wide,
+  With ceaseless flow,
+  His beard of snow
+  Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+  He waits impatient for his bride.
+  There she stands,
+  With her foot upon the sands,
+  Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+  In honor of her marriage day,
+  Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+  Round her like a veil descending,
+  Ready to be
+  The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+  On the deck another bride
+  Is standing by her lover's side.
+  Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+  Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+  Broken by many a sudden fleck,
+  Fall around them on the deck.
+
+  The prayer is said,
+  The service read,
+  The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
+  And in tears the good old Master
+  Shakes the brown hand of his son,
+  Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
+  In silence, for he cannot speak,
+  And ever faster
+  Down his own the tears begin to run.
+  The worthy pastor--
+  The shepherd of that wandering flock,
+  That has the ocean for its wold,
+  That has the vessel for its fold,
+  Leaping ever from rock to rock
+  Spake, with accents mild and clear,
+  Words of warning, words of cheer,
+  But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
+  He knew the chart
+  Of the sailor's heart,
+  All its pleasures and its griefs,
+  All its shallows and rocky reefs,
+  All those secret currents, that flow
+  With such resistless undertow,
+  And lift and drift, with terrible force,
+  The will from its moorings and its course.
+  Therefore he spake, and thus said he:--
+  "Like unto ships far off at sea,
+  Outward or homeward bound, are we.
+  Before, behind, and all around,
+  Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
+  Seems at its distant rim to rise
+  And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
+  And then again to turn and sink,
+  As if we could slide from its outer brink.
+  Ah! it is not the sea,
+  It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
+  But ourselves
+  That rock and rise
+  With endless and uneasy motion,
+  Now touching the very skies,
+  Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
+  Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
+  Like the compass in its brazen ring,
+  Ever level and ever true
+  To the toil and the task we have to do,
+  We shall sail securely, and safely reach
+  The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
+  The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
+  Will be those of joy and not of fear!"
+
+  Then the Master,
+  With a gesture of command,
+  Waved his hand;
+  And at the word,
+  Loud and sudden there was heard,
+  All around them and below,
+  The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+  Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+  And see! she stirs!
+  She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
+  The thrill of life along her keel,
+  And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+  With one exulting, joyous bound,
+  She leaps into the ocean's arms!
+
+  And lo! from the assembled crowd
+  There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+  That to the ocean seemed to say,
+  "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+  Take her to thy protecting arms,
+  With all her youth and all her charms!"
+
+  How beautiful she is! How fair
+  She lies within those arms, that press
+  Her form with many a soft caress
+  Of tenderness and watchful care!
+  Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+  Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+  The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+  Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+  Sail forth into the sea of life,
+  O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+  And safe from all adversity
+  Upon the bosom of that sea
+  Thy comings and thy goings be!
+  For gentleness and love and trust
+  Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
+  And in the wreck of noble lives
+  Something immortal still survives!
+
+  Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+  Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+  Humanity with all its fears,
+  With all the hopes of future years,
+  Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+  We know what Master laid thy keel,
+  What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+  Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+  What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+  In what a forge and what a heat
+  Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+  Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+  'T is of the wave and not the rock;
+  'T is but the flapping of the sail,
+  And not a rent made by the gale!
+  In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
+  In spite of false lights on the shore,
+  Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+  Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+  Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+  Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
+  Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+      A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+        And towers that touch imaginary skies ]
+
+
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+
+  A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
+    A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
+  A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+    And towers that touch imaginary skies.
+
+  A fearless rider on his father's knee,
+    An eager listener unto stories told
+  At the Round Table of the nursery,
+    Of heroes and adventures manifold.
+
+  There will be other towers for thee to build;
+    There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
+  There will be other legends, and all filled
+    With greater marvels and more glorified.
+
+  Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
+    Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
+  Listening to voices in the upper air,
+    Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+      A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door ]
+
+
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+
+  Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+  Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
+  On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
+  Hardly a man is now alive
+  Who remembers that famous day and year.
+
+  He said to his friend, "If the British march
+  By land or sea from the town to-night,
+  Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
+  Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
+  One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
+  And I on the opposite shore will be,
+  Ready to ride and spread the alarm
+  Through every Middlesex village and farm,
+  For the country folk to be up and to arm."
+
+  Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
+  Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
+  Just as the moon rose over the bay,
+  Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
+  The Somerset, British man-of-war;
+  A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
+  Across the moon like a prison bar,
+  And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
+  By its own reflection in the tide.
+
+  Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
+  Wanders and watches with eager ears,
+  Till in the silence around him he hears
+  The muster of men at the barrack door,
+  The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
+  And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
+  Marching down to their boats on the shore.
+
+  Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
+  By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
+  To the belfry-chamber overhead,
+  And startled the pigeons from their perch
+  On the sombre rafters, that round him made
+  Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
+  By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
+  To the highest window in the wall,
+  Where he paused to listen and look down
+  A moment on the roofs of the town,
+  And the moonlight flowing over all.
+
+  Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
+  In their night-encampment on the hill,
+  Wrapped in silence so deep and still
+  That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
+  The watchful night-wind, as it went
+  Creeping along from tent to tent,
+  And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
+  A moment only he feels the spell
+  Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
+  Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
+  For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
+  On a shadowy something far away,
+  Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
+  A line of black that bends and floats
+  On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
+
+  Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
+  Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
+  On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
+  Now he patted his horse's side,
+  Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
+  Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
+  And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
+  But mostly he watched with eager search
+  The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
+  As it rose above the graves on the hill,
+  Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
+  And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
+  A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
+  He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
+  But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
+  A second lamp in the belfry burns!
+  A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
+  A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
+  And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
+  Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
+  That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
+  The fate of a nation was riding that night;
+  And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
+  Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
+
+  He has left the village and mounted the steep,
+  And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
+  Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
+  And under the alders that skirt its edge,
+  Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
+  Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
+
+  It was twelve by the village clock,
+  When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
+  He heard the crowing of the cock,
+  And the barking of the farmer's dog,
+  And felt the damp of the river fog,
+  That rises after the sun goes down.
+
+  It was one by the village clock,
+  When he galloped into Lexington.
+  He saw the gilded weathercock
+  Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
+  And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
+  Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
+  As if they already stood aghast
+  At the bloody work they would look upon.
+
+  It was two by the village clock,
+  When he came to the bridge in Concord town
+  He heard the bleating of the flock,
+  And the twitter of birds among the trees,
+  And felt the breath of the morning breeze
+  Blowing over the meadows brown.
+  And one was safe and asleep in his bed
+  Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
+  Who that day would be lying dead,
+  Pierced by a British musket-ball.
+
+  You know the rest. In the books you have read.
+  How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
+  How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
+  From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
+  Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
+  Then crossing the fields to emerge again
+  Under the trees at the turn of the road,
+  And only pausing to fire and load.
+
+  So through the night rode Paul Revere;
+  And so through the night went his cry of alarm
+  To every Middlesex village and farm,--
+  A cry of defiance and not of fear,
+  A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
+  And a word that shall echo forevermore!
+  For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
+  Through all our history, to the last,
+  In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
+  The people will waken and listen to hear
+  The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
+  And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+      "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+        For a hundred year!" ]
+
+
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+  Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
+    In his ship-yard by the sea,
+  Whistling, said, "It would bewilder
+  Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
+    Any man but me!"
+
+  Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
+    Built of old by Raud the Strong,
+  And King Olaf had commanded
+  He should build another Dragon,
+    Twice as large and long.
+
+  Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
+    As he sat with half-closed eyes,
+  And his head turned sideways, drafting
+  That new vessel for King Olaf
+    Twice the Dragon's size.
+
+  Round him busily hewed and hammered
+    Mallet huge and heavy axe;
+  Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
+  Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
+    Spun the shining flax!
+
+  All this tumult heard the master,--
+    It was music to his ear;
+  Fancy whispered all the faster,
+  "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!"
+
+  Workmen sweating at the forges
+    Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
+  Like a warlock's midnight orgies
+  Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
+    With the boiling tar.
+
+  Did the warlocks mingle in it,
+    Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
+  Could you not be gone a minute
+  But some mischief must be doing,
+    Turning bad to worse?
+
+  'T was an ill wind that came wafting
+    From his homestead words of woe;
+  To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
+  Oft repeating to his workmen,
+    Build ye thus and so.
+
+  After long delays returning
+    Came the master back by night;
+  To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
+  Hurried he, and did not leave it
+    Till the morning's light.
+
+  "Come and see my ship, my darling!"
+    On the morrow said the King;
+  "Finished now from keel to carling;
+  Never yet was seen in Norway
+    Such a wondrous thing!"
+
+  In the ship-yard, idly talking,
+    At the ship the workmen stared:
+  Some one, all their labor balking,
+  Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
+    Not a plank was spared!
+
+  "Death be to the evil-doer!"
+    With an oath King Olaf spoke!
+  "But rewards to his pursuer!"
+  And with wrath his face grew redder
+    Than his scarlet cloak.
+
+  Straight the master-builder, smiling,
+    Answered thus the angry King:
+  "Cease blaspheming and reviling,
+  Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
+    Who has done this thing!"
+
+  Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
+    Till the King, delighted, swore,
+  With much lauding and much thanking,
+  "Handsomer is now my Dragon
+    Than she was before!"
+
+  Seventy ells and four extended
+    On the grass the vessel's keel;
+  High above it, gilt and splendid,
+  Rose the figure-head ferocious
+    With its crest of steel.
+
+  Then they launched her from the tressels,
+    In the ship-yard by the sea;
+  She was the grandest of all vessels,
+  Never ship was built in Norway
+    Half so fine as she!
+
+  The Long Serpent was she christened,
+    'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
+  They who to the Saga listened
+  Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
+    For a hundred year!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow, by 
+Henry W. Longfellow
+
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+Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow
+#9 in our series by Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
+this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
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+**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
+
+**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
+
+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
+
+Title: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9080]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on September 3, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW
+
+Illustrated
+
+1908
+
+
+
+
+Publishers' Note
+
+    Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his
+    poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with
+    youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet
+    best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers
+    that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these
+    poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American
+    artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands
+    of young folks and their parents.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Part the First
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA:
+    Hiawatha's Sailing
+    Hiawatha's Fishing
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+    And children coming home from school
+      Look in at the open door
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+    And he dropped his line of cedar
+      Through the clear, transparent water
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+    The sun shone on her golden hair,
+      And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+    A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+      And towers that touch imaginary skies
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+    "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+      For a hundred year!"
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast ]
+
+
+
+THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+
+It was the schooner Hesperus,
+  That sailed the wintry sea;
+And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+  To bear him company.
+
+Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+  Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+  That ope in the month of May.
+
+The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+  His pipe was in his mouth,
+And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+  The smoke now West, now South.
+
+Then up and spake an old Sailor,
+  Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+  For I fear a hurricane.
+
+"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+  And to-night no moon we see!"
+The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+  And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+Colder and louder blew the wind,
+  A gale from the Northeast,
+The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+  And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+Down came the storm, and smote amain
+  The vessel in its strength;
+She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
+  Then leaped her cable's length.
+
+"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+  And do not tremble so;
+For I can weather the roughest gale
+  That ever wind did blow."
+
+He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+  Against the stinging blast;
+He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+  And bound her to the mast.
+
+"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+  Oh say, what may it be?"
+"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
+  And he steered for the open sea.
+
+"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+  Oh say, what may it be?"
+"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+  In such an angry sea!"
+
+"O father! I see a gleaming light,
+  Oh say, what may it be?"
+But the father answered never a word,
+  A frozen corpse was he.
+
+Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+  With his face turned to the skies,
+The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+  On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+  That saved she might be;
+And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+  On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+  Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+  Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
+
+And ever the fitful gusts between
+  A sound came from the land;
+It was the sound of the trampling surf
+  On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+  She drifted a dreary wreck,
+And a whooping billow swept the crew
+  Like icicles from her deck.
+
+She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+  Looked soft as carded wool,
+But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+  Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+  With the masts went by the board;
+Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+  Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+  A fisherman stood aghast,
+To see the form of a maiden fair,
+  Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+  The salt tears in her eyes;
+And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+  On the billows fall and rise.
+
+Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
+  In the midnight and the snow!
+Christ save us all from a death like this,
+  On the reef of Norman's Woe!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+    And children coming home from school
+      Look in at the open door ]
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+
+Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+  The village smithy stands;
+The smith, a mighty man is he,
+  With large and sinewy hands;
+And the muscles of his brawny arms
+  Are strong as iron bands.
+
+His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+  His face is like the tan;
+His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+  He earns whate'er he can,
+And looks the whole world in the face,
+  For he owes not any man.
+
+Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+  You can hear his bellows blow;
+You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+  With measured beat and slow,
+Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+  When the evening sun is low.
+
+And children coming home from school
+  Look in at the open door;
+They love to see the flaming forge,
+  And hear the bellows roar,
+And catch the burning sparks that fly
+  Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+He goes on Sunday to the church,
+  And sits among his boys;
+He hears the parson pray and preach,
+  He hears his daughter's voice,
+Singing in the village choir,
+  And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+  Singing in Paradise!
+He needs must think of her once more,
+  How in the grave she lies;
+And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+  A tear out of his eyes.
+
+Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+  Onward through life he goes;
+Each morning sees some task begin,
+  Each evening sees it close;
+Something attempted, something done,
+  Has earned a night's repose.
+
+Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+  For the lesson thou hast taught!
+Thus at the flaming forge of life
+  Our fortunes must be wrought;
+Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+  Each burning deed and thought.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music ]
+
+
+
+EVANGELINE
+
+
+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 hemlock,
+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 doorway.
+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 sounds 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.
+Fair 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 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 thought 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 with 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 foes 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 tomorrow.
+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 a 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 manoeuvre,
+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 mists 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 was the evening passed. 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,
+Stript of its 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 Dunquerque_,
+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 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,
+While 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 mournful 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 was 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 disconsolate 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 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 milk-maid.
+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 tearful eyes 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 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 awoke 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 sea-side,
+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.
+'T was 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.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+    And he dropped his line of cedar
+      Through the clear, transparent water ]
+
+
+
+THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
+
+
+HIAWATHA'S SAILING
+
+"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
+Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
+Growing by the rushing river,
+Tall and stately in the valley!
+I a light canoe will build me,
+Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
+That shall float upon the river,
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily!
+
+"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
+Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
+For the Summer-time is coming,
+And the sun is warm in heaven,
+And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
+
+Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
+In the solitary forest,
+By the rushing Taquamenaw,
+When the birds were singing gayly,
+In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
+And the sun, from sleep awaking,
+Started up and said, "Behold me!
+Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
+
+And the tree with all its branches
+Rustled in the breeze of morning,
+Saying, with a sigh of patience,
+"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
+
+With his knife the tree he girdled;
+Just beneath its lowest branches,
+Just above the roots, he cut it,
+Till the sap came oozing outward;
+Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
+Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
+With a wooden wedge he raised it,
+Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
+
+"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
+Of your strong and pliant branches,
+My canoe to make more steady,
+Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
+
+Through the summit of the Cedar
+Went a sound, a cry of horror,
+Went a murmur of resistance;
+But it whispered, bending downward,
+"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
+
+Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
+Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
+Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
+Like two bended bows together.
+
+"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
+Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
+My canoe to bind together,
+So to bind the ends together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!"
+
+And the Larch, with all its fibres,
+Shivered in the air of morning,
+Touched his forehead with its tassels,
+Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
+"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
+
+From the earth he tore the fibres,
+Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
+Closely sewed the bark together,
+Bound it closely to the frame-work.
+
+"Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
+Of your balsam and your resin,
+So to close the seams together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!"
+
+And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
+Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
+Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
+Answered wailing, answered weeping,
+"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
+
+And he took the tears of balsam,
+Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
+Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
+Made each crevice safe from water.
+
+"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
+All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
+I will make a necklace of them,
+Make a girdle for my beauty,
+And two stars to deck her bosom!"
+
+From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
+With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
+Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
+Saying with a drowsy murmur,
+Through the tangle of his whiskers,
+"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
+
+From the ground the quills he gathered,
+All the little shining arrows,
+Stained them red and blue and yellow,
+With the juice of roots and berries;
+Into his canoe he wrought them,
+Round its waist a shining girdle,
+Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
+On its breast two stars resplendent.
+
+Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
+In the valley, by the river,
+In the bosom of the forest;
+And the forest's life was in it,
+All its mystery and its magic,
+All the lightness of the birch-tree,
+All the toughness of the cedar,
+All the larch's supple sinews;
+And it floated on the river
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily.
+
+Paddles none had Hiawatha,
+Paddles none he had or needed,
+For his thoughts as paddles served him,
+And his wishes served to guide him;
+Swift or slow at will he glided,
+Veered to right or left at pleasure.
+
+Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
+To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Saying, "Help me clear this river
+Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
+
+Straight into the river Kwasind
+Plunged as if he were an otter,
+Dived as if he were a beaver,
+Stood up to his waist in water,
+To his arm-pits in the river,
+Swam and shouted in the river,
+Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
+With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
+With his feet the ooze and tangle.
+
+And thus sailed my Hiawatha
+Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
+Sailed through all its bends and windings,
+Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
+While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
+
+Up and down the river went they,
+In and out among its islands,
+Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
+Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
+Made its passage safe and certain,
+Made a pathway for the people,
+From its springs among the mountains,
+To the waters of Pauwating,
+To the bay of Taquamenau.
+
+
+HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+
+Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
+On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
+With his fishing-line of cedar,
+Of the twisted bark of cedar,
+Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
+Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
+In his birch canoe exulting
+All alone went Hiawatha.
+
+Through the clear, transparent water
+He could see the fishes swimming
+Far down in the depths below him;
+See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
+Like a sunbeam in the water,
+See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
+Like a spider on the bottom,
+On the white and sandy bottom.
+
+At the stern sat Hiawatha,
+With his fishing-line of cedar;
+In his plumes the breeze of morning
+Played as in the hemlock branches;
+On the bows, with tail erected,
+Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
+In his fur the breeze of morning
+Played as in the prairie grasses.
+
+On the white sand of the bottom
+Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
+Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
+Through his gills he breathed the water,
+With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
+With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
+
+There he lay in all his armor;
+On each side a shield to guard him,
+Plates of bone upon his forehead,
+Down his sides and back and shoulders
+Plates of bone with spines projecting!
+Painted was he with his war-paints,
+Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
+Spots of brown and spots of sable;
+And he lay there on the bottom,
+Fanning with his fins of purple,
+As above him Hiawatha
+In his birch canoe came sailing,
+With his fishing-line of cedar.
+
+"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,
+Down into the depths beneath him,
+"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
+Come up from below the water,
+Let us see which is the stronger!"
+And he dropped his line of cedar
+Through the clear, transparent water,
+Waited vainly for an answer,
+Long sat waiting for an answer,
+And repeating loud and louder,
+"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
+
+Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Fanning slowly in the water,
+Looking up at Hiawatha,
+Listening to his call and clamor,
+His unnecessary tumult,
+Till he wearied of the shouting;
+And he said to the Kenozha,
+To the pike, the Maskenozha,
+"Take the bait of this rude fellow,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+In his fingers Hiawatha
+Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
+As he drew it in, it tugged so
+That the birch canoe stood endwise,
+Like a birch log in the water,
+With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Perched and frisking on the summit.
+
+Full of scorn was Hiawatha
+When he saw the fish rise upward,
+Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
+Coming nearer, nearer to him,
+And he shouted through the water,
+"Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are but the pike, Kenozha,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+Reeling downward to the bottom
+Sank the pike in great confusion,
+And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
+Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+To the bream, with scales of crimson,
+"Take the bait of this great boaster,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
+Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+Seized the line of Hiawatha,
+Swung with all his weight upon it,
+Made a whirlpool in the water,
+Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
+Round and round in gurgling eddies,
+Till the circles in the water
+Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
+Till the water-flags and rushes
+Nodded on the distant margins.
+
+But when Hiawatha saw him
+Slowly rising through the water,
+Lifting up his disk refulgent,
+Loud he shouted in derision,
+"Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
+Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
+Heard his challenge of defiance,
+The unnecessary tumult,
+Ringing far across the water.
+
+From the white sand of the bottom
+Up he rose with angry gesture,
+Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
+Clashing all his plates of armor,
+Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
+In his wrath he darted upward,
+Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
+Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
+Both canoe and Hiawatha.
+
+Down into that darksome cavern
+Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
+As a log on some black river
+Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
+Found himself in utter darkness,
+Groped about in helpless wonder,
+Till he felt a great heart beating,
+Throbbing in that utter darkness.
+
+And he smote it in his anger,
+With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
+Felt the mighty King of Fishes
+Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
+Heard the water gurgle round him
+As he leaped and staggered through it,
+Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
+
+Crosswise then did Hiawatha
+Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
+Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
+In the turmoil and confusion,
+Forth he might be hurled and perish.
+And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Frisked and chattered very gayly,
+Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
+Till the labor was completed.
+
+Then said Hiawatha to him,
+"O my little friend, the squirrel,
+Bravely have you toiled to help me;
+Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
+And the name which now he gives you;
+For hereafter and forever
+Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
+Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
+
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Gasped and quivered in the water,
+Then was still, and drifted landward
+Till he grated on the pebbles,
+Till the listening Hiawatha
+Heard him grate upon the margin,
+Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
+Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
+Lay there dead upon the margin.
+
+Then he heard a clang and flapping,
+As of many wings assembling,
+Heard a screaming and confusion,
+As of birds of prey contending,
+Saw a gleam of light above him,
+Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
+Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
+Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
+Gazing at him through the opening,
+Heard them saying to each other,
+"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
+
+And he shouted from below them,
+Cried exulting from the caverns:
+"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
+I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
+Make the rifts a little larger,
+With your claws the openings widen,
+Set me free from this dark prison,
+And henceforward and forever
+Men shall speak of your achievements,
+Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
+Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
+
+And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
+Toiled with beak and claws together,
+Made the rifts and openings wider
+In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
+And from peril and from prison,
+From the body of the sturgeon,
+From the peril of the water,
+They released my Hiawatha.
+
+He was standing near his wigwam,
+On the margin of the water,
+And he called to old Nokomis,
+Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
+Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
+With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
+
+"I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
+Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;
+"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
+Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
+Drive them not away, Nokomis,
+They have saved me from great peril
+In the body of the sturgeon,
+Wait until their meal is ended,
+Till their craws are full with feasting,
+Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
+To their nests among the marshes;
+Then bring all your pots and kettles,
+And make oil for us in Winter."
+
+And she waited till the sun set,
+Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
+Rose above the tranquil water,
+Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
+From their banquet rose with clamor,
+And across the fiery sunset
+Winged their way to far-off islands,
+To their nests among the rushes.
+
+To his sleep went Hiawatha,
+And Nokomis to her labor,
+Toiling patient in the moonlight,
+Till the sun and moon changed places,
+Till the sky was red with sunrise,
+And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
+Came back from the reedy islands,
+Clamorous for their morning banquet.
+
+Three whole days and nights alternate
+Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
+Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
+Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
+Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
+And upon the sands lay nothing
+But the skeleton of Nahma.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+    The sun shone on her golden hair,
+      And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair ]
+
+
+
+THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+
+"Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+  Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+  And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+The merchant's word
+Delighted the Master heard;
+For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+Giveth grace unto every Art.
+A quiet smile played round his lips,
+As the eddies and dimples of the tide
+Play round the bows of ships,
+That steadily at anchor ride.
+And with a voice that was full of glee,
+He answered, "Erelong we will launch
+A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
+As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
+And first with nicest skill and art,
+Perfect and finished in every part,
+A little model the Master wrought,
+Which should be to the larger plan
+What the child is to the man,
+Its counterpart in miniature;
+That with a hand more swift and sure
+The greater labor might be brought
+To answer to his inward thought.
+And as he labored, his mind ran o'er
+The various ships that were built of yore,
+And above them all, and strangest of all
+Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
+Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
+With bows and stern raised high in air,
+And balconies hanging here and there,
+And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
+And eight round towers, like those that frown
+From some old castle, looking down
+Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
+And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
+Shall be of another form than this!"
+It was of another form, indeed;
+Built for freight, and yet for speed,
+A beautiful and gallant craft;
+Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
+Pressing down upon sail and mast,
+Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
+Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
+With graceful curve and slow degrees,
+That she might be docile to the helm,
+And that the currents of parted seas,
+Closing behind, with mighty force,
+Might aid and not impede her course.
+
+In the ship-yard stood the Master,
+With the model of the vessel,
+That should laugh at all disaster,
+And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
+
+Covering many a rood of ground,
+Lay the timber piled around;
+Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
+And scattered here and there, with these,
+The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
+Brought from regions far away,
+From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
+And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
+Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
+To note how many wheels of toil
+One thought, one word, can set in motion!
+There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
+But every climate, every soil,
+Must bring its tribute, great or small,
+And help to build the wooden wall!
+
+The sun was rising o'er the sea,
+And long the level shadows lay,
+As if they, too, the beams would be
+Of some great, airy argosy,
+Framed and launched in a single day.
+That silent architect, the sun,
+Had hewn and laid them every one,
+Ere the work of man was yet begun.
+Beside the Master, when he spoke,
+A youth, against an anchor leaning,
+Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
+Only the long waves, as they broke
+In ripples on the pebbly beach,
+Interrupted the old man's speech.
+
+Beautiful they were, in sooth,
+The old man and the fiery youth!
+The old man, in whose busy brain
+Many a ship that sailed the main
+Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--
+The fiery youth, who was to be
+The heir of his dexterity,
+The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
+When he had built and launched from land
+What the elder head had planned.
+
+"Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
+Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
+And follow well this plan of mine.
+Choose the timbers with greatest care;
+Of all that is unsound beware;
+For only what is sound and strong
+To this vessel shall belong.
+Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
+Here together shall combine.
+A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
+And the UNION be her name!
+For the day that gives her to the sea
+Shall give my daughter unto thee!"
+
+The Master's word
+Enraptured the young man heard;
+And as he turned his face aside,
+With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
+Standing before
+Her father's door,
+He saw the form of his promised bride.
+The sun shone on her golden hair,
+And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
+With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
+Like a beauteous barge was she,
+Still at rest on the sandy beach,
+Just beyond the billow's reach;
+But he
+Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
+
+Ah, how skilful grows the hand
+That obeyeth Love's command!
+It is the heart, and not the brain,
+That to the highest doth attain,
+And he who followeth Love's behest
+Far excelleth all the rest!
+Thus with the rising of the sun
+Was the noble task begun,
+And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
+Were heard the intermingled sounds
+Of axes and of mallets, plied
+With vigorous arms on every side;
+Plied so deftly and so well,
+That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
+The keel of oak for a noble ship,
+Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
+Was lying ready, and stretched along
+The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
+Happy, thrice happy, every one
+Who sees his labor well begun,
+And not perplexed and multiplied,
+By idly waiting for time and tide!
+
+And when the hot, long day was o'er,
+The young man at the Master's door
+Sat with the maiden calm and still,
+And within the porch, a little more
+Removed beyond the evening chill,
+The father sat, and told them tales
+Of wrecks in the great September gales,
+Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
+And ships that never came back again,
+The chance and change of a sailor's life,
+Want and plenty, rest and strife,
+His roving fancy, like the wind,
+That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
+And the magic charm of foreign lands,
+With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
+Where the tumbling surf,
+O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
+Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
+As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
+And the trembling maiden held her breath
+At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
+With all its terror and mystery,
+The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
+That divides and yet unites mankind!
+And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
+From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
+The silent group in the twilight gloom,
+And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
+And for a moment one might mark
+What had been hidden by the dark,
+That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
+Tenderly, on the young man's breast!
+
+Day by day the vessel grew,
+With timbers fashioned strong and true,
+Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
+Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
+A skeleton ship rose up to view!
+And around the bows and along the side
+The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
+Till after many a week, at length,
+Wonderful for form and strength,
+Sublime in its enormous bulk,
+Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
+And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
+Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
+Caldron, that glowed,
+And overflowed
+With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
+And amid the clamors
+Of clattering hammers,
+He who listened heard now and then
+The song of the Master and his men:--
+
+"Build me straight, O worthy Master,
+  Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+  And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+With oaken brace and copper band,
+Lay the rudder on the sand,
+That, like a thought, should have control
+Over the movement of the whole;
+And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
+Would reach down and grapple with the land,
+And immovable and fast
+Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
+And at the bows an image stood,
+By a cunning artist carved in wood,
+With robes of white, that far behind
+Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
+It was not shaped in a classic mould,
+Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
+Or Naiad rising from the water,
+But modelled from the Master's daughter!
+On many a dreary and misty night,
+'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
+Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
+Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
+The pilot of some phantom bark,
+Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
+By a path none other knows aright!
+
+Behold, at last,
+Each tall and tapering mast
+Is swung into its place;
+Shrouds and stays
+Holding it firm and fast!
+
+Long ago,
+In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
+When upon mountain and plain
+Lay the snow,
+They fell,--those lordly pines!
+Those grand, majestic pines!
+'Mid shouts and cheers
+The jaded steers,
+Panting beneath the goad,
+Dragged down the weary, winding road
+Those captive kings so straight and tall,
+To be shorn of their streaming hair,
+And naked and bare,
+To feel the stress and the strain
+Of the wind and the reeling main,
+Whose roar
+Would remind them forevermore
+Of their native forests they should not see again.
+
+And everywhere
+The slender, graceful spars
+Poise aloft in the air,
+And at the mast-head,
+White, blue, and red,
+A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
+Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
+In foreign harbors shall behold
+That flag unrolled,
+'T will be as a friendly hand
+Stretched out from his native land,
+Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
+
+All is finished! and at length
+Has come the bridal day
+Of beauty and of strength.
+To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+And o'er the bay,
+Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
+The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+The ocean old,
+Centuries old,
+Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+Paces restless to and fro,
+Up and down the sands of gold.
+His beating heart is not at rest;
+And far and wide,
+With ceaseless flow,
+His beard of snow
+Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+He waits impatient for his bride.
+There she stands,
+With her foot upon the sands,
+Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+In honor of her marriage day,
+Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+Round her like a veil descending,
+Ready to be
+The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+On the deck another bride
+Is standing by her lover's side.
+Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+Broken by many a sudden fleck,
+Fall around them on the deck.
+
+The prayer is said,
+The service read,
+The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
+And in tears the good old Master
+Shakes the brown hand of his son,
+Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
+In silence, for he cannot speak,
+And ever faster
+Down his own the tears begin to run.
+The worthy pastor--
+The shepherd of that wandering flock,
+That has the ocean for its wold,
+That has the vessel for its fold,
+Leaping ever from rock to rock
+Spake, with accents mild and clear,
+Words of warning, words of cheer,
+But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
+He knew the chart
+Of the sailor's heart,
+All its pleasures and its griefs,
+All its shallows and rocky reefs,
+All those secret currents, that flow
+With such resistless undertow,
+And lift and drift, with terrible force,
+The will from its moorings and its course.
+Therefore he spake, and thus said he:--
+"Like unto ships far off at sea,
+Outward or homeward bound, are we.
+Before, behind, and all around,
+Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
+Seems at its distant rim to rise
+And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
+And then again to turn and sink,
+As if we could slide from its outer brink.
+Ah! it is not the sea,
+It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
+But ourselves
+That rock and rise
+With endless and uneasy motion,
+Now touching the very skies,
+Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
+Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
+Like the compass in its brazen ring,
+Ever level and ever true
+To the toil and the task we have to do,
+We shall sail securely, and safely reach
+The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
+The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
+Will be those of joy and not of fear!"
+
+Then the Master,
+With a gesture of command,
+Waved his hand;
+And at the word,
+Loud and sudden there was heard,
+All around them and below,
+The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+And see! she stirs!
+She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
+The thrill of life along her keel,
+And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+With one exulting, joyous bound,
+She leaps into the ocean's arms!
+
+And lo! from the assembled crowd
+There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+That to the ocean seemed to say,
+"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+Take her to thy protecting arms,
+With all her youth and all her charms!"
+
+How beautiful she is! How fair
+She lies within those arms, that press
+Her form with many a soft caress
+Of tenderness and watchful care!
+Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+Sail forth into the sea of life,
+O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+And safe from all adversity
+Upon the bosom of that sea
+Thy comings and thy goings be!
+For gentleness and love and trust
+Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
+And in the wreck of noble lives
+Something immortal still survives!
+
+Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+Humanity with all its fears,
+With all the hopes of future years,
+Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+We know what Master laid thy keel,
+What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+In what a forge and what a heat
+Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+'T is of the wave and not the rock;
+'T is but the flapping of the sail,
+And not a rent made by the gale!
+In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
+In spite of false lights on the shore,
+Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
+Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+    A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+      And towers that touch imaginary skies ]
+
+
+
+THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+
+A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
+  A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
+A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+  And towers that touch imaginary skies.
+
+A fearless rider on his father's knee,
+  An eager listener unto stories told
+At the Round Table of the nursery,
+  Of heroes and adventures manifold.
+
+There will be other towers for thee to build;
+  There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
+There will be other legends, and all filled
+  With greater marvels and more glorified.
+
+Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
+  Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
+Listening to voices in the upper air,
+  Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door ]
+
+
+
+PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+
+Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
+On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
+Hardly a man is now alive
+Who remembers that famous day and year.
+
+He said to his friend, "If the British march
+By land or sea from the town to-night,
+Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
+Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
+One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
+And I on the opposite shore will be,
+Ready to ride and spread the alarm
+Through every Middlesex village and farm,
+For the country folk to be up and to arm."
+
+Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
+Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
+Just as the moon rose over the bay,
+Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
+The Somerset, British man-of-war;
+A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
+Across the moon like a prison bar,
+And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
+By its own reflection in the tide.
+
+Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
+Wanders and watches with eager ears,
+Till in the silence around him he hears
+The muster of men at the barrack door,
+The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
+And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
+Marching down to their boats on the shore.
+
+Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
+By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
+To the belfry-chamber overhead,
+And startled the pigeons from their perch
+On the sombre rafters, that round him made
+Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
+By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
+To the highest window in the wall,
+Where he paused to listen and look down
+A moment on the roofs of the town,
+And the moonlight flowing over all.
+
+Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
+In their night-encampment on the hill,
+Wrapped in silence so deep and still
+That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
+The watchful night-wind, as it went
+Creeping along from tent to tent,
+And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
+A moment only he feels the spell
+Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
+Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
+For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
+On a shadowy something far away,
+Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
+A line of black that bends and floats
+On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
+
+Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
+Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
+On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
+Now he patted his horse's side,
+Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
+Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
+And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
+But mostly he watched with eager search
+The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
+As it rose above the graves on the hill,
+Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
+And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
+A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
+He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
+But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
+A second lamp in the belfry burns!
+A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
+A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
+And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
+Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
+That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
+The fate of a nation was riding that night;
+And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
+Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
+
+He has left the village and mounted the steep,
+And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
+Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
+And under the alders that skirt its edge,
+Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
+Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
+
+It was twelve by the village clock,
+When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
+He heard the crowing of the cock,
+And the barking of the farmer's dog,
+And felt the damp of the river fog,
+That rises after the sun goes down.
+
+It was one by the village clock,
+When he galloped into Lexington.
+He saw the gilded weathercock
+Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
+And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
+Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
+As if they already stood aghast
+At the bloody work they would look upon.
+
+It was two by the village clock,
+When he came to the bridge in Concord town
+He heard the bleating of the flock,
+And the twitter of birds among the trees,
+And felt the breath of the morning breeze
+Blowing over the meadows brown.
+And one was safe and asleep in his bed
+Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
+Who that day would be lying dead,
+Pierced by a British musket-ball.
+
+You know the rest. In the books you have read.
+How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
+How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
+From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
+Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
+Then crossing the fields to emerge again
+Under the trees at the turn of the road,
+And only pausing to fire and load.
+
+So through the night rode Paul Revere;
+And so through the night went his cry of alarm
+To every Middlesex village and farm,--
+A cry of defiance and not of fear,
+A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
+And a word that shall echo forevermore!
+For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
+Through all our history, to the last,
+In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
+The people will waken and listen to hear
+The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
+And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+    "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+      For a hundred year!" ]
+
+
+
+THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
+  In his ship-yard by the sea,
+Whistling, said, "It would bewilder
+Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
+  Any man but me!"
+
+Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
+  Built of old by Raud the Strong,
+And King Olaf had commanded
+He should build another Dragon,
+  Twice as large and long.
+
+Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
+  As he sat with half-closed eyes,
+And his head turned sideways, drafting
+That new vessel for King Olaf
+  Twice the Dragon's size.
+
+Round him busily hewed and hammered
+  Mallet huge and heavy axe;
+Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
+Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
+  Spun the shining flax!
+
+All this tumult heard the master,--
+  It was music to his ear;
+Fancy whispered all the faster,
+"Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+  For a hundred year!"
+
+Workmen sweating at the forges
+  Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
+Like a warlock's midnight orgies
+Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
+  With the boiling tar.
+
+Did the warlocks mingle in it,
+  Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
+Could you not be gone a minute
+But some mischief must be doing,
+  Turning bad to worse?
+
+'T was an ill wind that came wafting
+  From his homestead words of woe;
+To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
+Oft repeating to his workmen,
+  Build ye thus and so.
+
+After long delays returning
+  Came the master back by night;
+To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
+Hurried he, and did not leave it
+  Till the morning's light.
+
+"Come and see my ship, my darling!"
+  On the morrow said the King;
+"Finished now from keel to carling;
+Never yet was seen in Norway
+  Such a wondrous thing!"
+
+In the ship-yard, idly talking,
+  At the ship the workmen stared:
+Some one, all their labor balking,
+Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
+  Not a plank was spared!
+
+"Death be to the evil-doer!"
+  With an oath King Olaf spoke!
+"But rewards to his pursuer!"
+And with wrath his face grew redder
+  Than his scarlet cloak.
+
+Straight the master-builder, smiling,
+  Answered thus the angry King:
+"Cease blaspheming and reviling,
+Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
+  Who has done this thing!"
+
+Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
+  Till the King, delighted, swore,
+With much lauding and much thanking,
+"Handsomer is now my Dragon
+  Than she was before!"
+
+Seventy ells and four extended
+  On the grass the vessel's keel;
+High above it, gilt and splendid,
+Rose the figure-head ferocious
+  With its crest of steel.
+
+Then they launched her from the tressels,
+  In the ship-yard by the sea;
+She was the grandest of all vessels,
+Never ship was built in Norway
+  Half so fine as she!
+
+The Long Serpent was she christened,
+  'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
+They who to the Saga listened
+Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
+  For a hundred year!
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow
+by Henry W. Longfellow
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+This file should be named chlng10.txt or chlng10.zip
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diff --git a/old/chlng10.txt~ b/old/chlng10.txt~
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+Project Gutenberg's The Children's Own Longfellow, by Henry W. Longfellow
+#9 in our series by Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
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+**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
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+**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
+
+Title: The Children's Own Longfellow
+
+Author: Henry W. Longfellow
+
+Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9080]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on September 3, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Patricia Peters and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW
+
+Illustrated
+
+1908
+
+
+
+
+Publishers' Note
+
+    Longfellow has been fitly called the children's poet. Many of his
+    poems have from their very first appearance been favorites with
+    youthful readers, and for many thousands of children he is the poet
+    best beloved. It has been, therefore, the hope of the publishers
+    that this volume, containing eight of the most popular of these
+    poems, illustrated in color by some of the best known American
+    artists of the present day, will find a ready welcome at the hands
+    of young folks and their parents.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Part the First
+
+  THE SONG OF HIAWATHA:
+    Hiawatha's Sailing
+    Hiawatha's Fishing
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast
+
+  THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+    And children coming home from school
+      Look in at the open door
+
+  EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music
+
+  HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+    And he dropped his line of cedar
+      Through the clear, transparent water
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+    The sun shone on her golden hair,
+      And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair
+
+  THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+    A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+      And towers that touch imaginary skies
+
+  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
+
+  THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+    "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+      For a hundred year!"
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS          _S.M. Arthurs_
+    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+      Against the stinging blast ]
+
+
+
+THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
+
+
+It was the schooner Hesperus,
+  That sailed the wintry sea;
+And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
+  To bear him company.
+
+Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
+  Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
+And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
+  That ope in the month of May.
+
+The skipper he stood beside the helm,
+  His pipe was in his mouth,
+And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
+  The smoke now West, now South.
+
+Then up and spake an old Sailor,
+  Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
+"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
+  For I fear a hurricane.
+
+"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
+  And to-night no moon we see!"
+The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
+  And a scornful laugh laughed he.
+
+Colder and louder blew the wind,
+  A gale from the Northeast,
+The snow fell hissing in the brine,
+  And the billows frothed like yeast.
+
+Down came the storm, and smote amain
+  The vessel in its strength;
+She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
+  Then leaped her cable's length.
+
+"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
+  And do not tremble so;
+For I can weather the roughest gale
+  That ever wind did blow."
+
+He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
+  Against the stinging blast;
+He cut a rope from a broken spar,
+  And bound her to the mast.
+
+"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
+  Oh say, what may it be?"
+"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
+  And he steered for the open sea.
+
+"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
+  Oh say, what may it be?"
+"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
+  In such an angry sea!"
+
+"O father! I see a gleaming light,
+  Oh say, what may it be?"
+But the father answered never a word,
+  A frozen corpse was he.
+
+Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
+  With his face turned to the skies,
+The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
+  On his fixed and glassy eyes.
+
+Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
+  That saved she might be;
+And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
+  On the Lake of Galilee.
+
+And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
+  Through the whistling sleet and snow,
+Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
+  Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
+
+And ever the fitful gusts between
+  A sound came from the land;
+It was the sound of the trampling surf
+  On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
+
+The breakers were right beneath her bows,
+  She drifted a dreary wreck,
+And a whooping billow swept the crew
+  Like icicles from her deck.
+
+She struck where the white and fleecy waves
+  Looked soft as carded wool,
+But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
+  Like the horns of an angry bull.
+
+Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
+  With the masts went by the board;
+Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
+  Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
+
+At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
+  A fisherman stood aghast,
+To see the form of a maiden fair,
+  Lashed close to a drifting mast.
+
+The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
+  The salt tears in her eyes;
+And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
+  On the billows fall and rise.
+
+Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
+  In the midnight and the snow!
+Christ save us all from a death like this,
+  On the reef of Norman's Woe!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH            _Howard Smith_
+    And children coming home from school
+      Look in at the open door ]
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
+
+
+Under a spreading chestnut-tree
+  The village smithy stands;
+The smith, a mighty man is he,
+  With large and sinewy hands;
+And the muscles of his brawny arms
+  Are strong as iron bands.
+
+His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
+  His face is like the tan;
+His brow is wet with honest sweat,
+  He earns whate'er he can,
+And looks the whole world in the face,
+  For he owes not any man.
+
+Week in, week out, from morn till night,
+  You can hear his bellows blow;
+You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
+  With measured beat and slow,
+Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
+  When the evening sun is low.
+
+And children coming home from school
+  Look in at the open door;
+They love to see the flaming forge,
+  And hear the bellows roar,
+And catch the burning sparks that fly
+  Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
+
+He goes on Sunday to the church,
+  And sits among his boys;
+He hears the parson pray and preach,
+  He hears his daughter's voice,
+Singing in the village choir,
+  And it makes his heart rejoice.
+
+It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
+  Singing in Paradise!
+He needs must think of her once more,
+  How in the grave she lies;
+And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
+  A tear out of his eyes.
+
+Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
+  Onward through life he goes;
+Each morning sees some task begin,
+  Each evening sees it close;
+Something attempted, something done,
+  Has earned a night's repose.
+
+Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
+  For the lesson thou hast taught!
+Thus at the flaming forge of life
+  Our fortunes must be wrought;
+Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
+  Each burning deed and thought.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: EVANGELINE
+    Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
+    When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music ]
+
+
+
+EVANGELINE
+
+
+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 hemlock,
+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 doorway.
+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 sounds 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.
+Fair 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 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 thought 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 with 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 foes 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 tomorrow.
+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 a 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 manoeuvre,
+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 mists 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 was the evening passed. 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,
+Stript of its 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 Dunquerque_,
+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 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,
+While 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 mournful 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 was 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 disconsolate 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 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 milk-maid.
+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 tearful eyes 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 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 awoke 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 sea-side,
+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.
+'T was 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.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+    And he dropped his line of cedar
+      Through the clear, transparent water ]
+
+
+
+THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
+
+
+HIAWATHA'S SAILING
+
+"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
+Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
+Growing by the rushing river,
+Tall and stately in the valley!
+I a light canoe will build me,
+Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
+That shall float upon the river,
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily!
+
+"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
+Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
+For the Summer-time is coming,
+And the sun is warm in heaven,
+And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
+
+Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
+In the solitary forest,
+By the rushing Taquamenaw,
+When the birds were singing gayly,
+In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
+And the sun, from sleep awaking,
+Started up and said, "Behold me!
+Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
+
+And the tree with all its branches
+Rustled in the breeze of morning,
+Saying, with a sigh of patience,
+"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
+
+With his knife the tree he girdled;
+Just beneath its lowest branches,
+Just above the roots, he cut it,
+Till the sap came oozing outward;
+Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
+Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
+With a wooden wedge he raised it,
+Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
+
+"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
+Of your strong and pliant branches,
+My canoe to make more steady,
+Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
+
+Through the summit of the Cedar
+Went a sound, a cry of horror,
+Went a murmur of resistance;
+But it whispered, bending downward,
+"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
+
+Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
+Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
+Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
+Like two bended bows together.
+
+"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
+Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
+My canoe to bind together,
+So to bind the ends together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!"
+
+And the Larch, with all its fibres,
+Shivered in the air of morning,
+Touched his forehead with its tassels,
+Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
+"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
+
+From the earth he tore the fibres,
+Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
+Closely sewed the bark together,
+Bound it closely to the frame-work.
+
+"Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
+Of your balsam and your resin,
+So to close the seams together
+That the water may not enter,
+That the river may not wet me!"
+
+And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
+Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
+Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
+Answered wailing, answered weeping,
+"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
+
+And he took the tears of balsam,
+Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
+Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
+Made each crevice safe from water.
+
+"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
+All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
+I will make a necklace of them,
+Make a girdle for my beauty,
+And two stars to deck her bosom!"
+
+From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
+With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
+Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
+Saying with a drowsy murmur,
+Through the tangle of his whiskers,
+"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
+
+From the ground the quills he gathered,
+All the little shining arrows,
+Stained them red and blue and yellow,
+With the juice of roots and berries;
+Into his canoe he wrought them,
+Round its waist a shining girdle,
+Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
+On its breast two stars resplendent.
+
+Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
+In the valley, by the river,
+In the bosom of the forest;
+And the forest's life was in it,
+All its mystery and its magic,
+All the lightness of the birch-tree,
+All the toughness of the cedar,
+All the larch's supple sinews;
+And it floated on the river
+Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
+Like a yellow water-lily.
+
+Paddles none had Hiawatha,
+Paddles none he had or needed,
+For his thoughts as paddles served him,
+And his wishes served to guide him;
+Swift or slow at will he glided,
+Veered to right or left at pleasure.
+
+Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
+To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Saying, "Help me clear this river
+Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
+
+Straight into the river Kwasind
+Plunged as if he were an otter,
+Dived as if he were a beaver,
+Stood up to his waist in water,
+To his arm-pits in the river,
+Swam and shouted in the river,
+Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
+With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
+With his feet the ooze and tangle.
+
+And thus sailed my Hiawatha
+Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
+Sailed through all its bends and windings,
+Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
+While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
+Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
+
+Up and down the river went they,
+In and out among its islands,
+Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
+Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
+Made its passage safe and certain,
+Made a pathway for the people,
+From its springs among the mountains,
+To the waters of Pauwating,
+To the bay of Taquamenau.
+
+
+HIAWATHA'S FISHING
+
+Forth upon the Gitchie Gumee,
+On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
+With his fishing-line of cedar,
+Of the twisted bark of cedar,
+Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
+Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
+In his birch canoe exulting
+All alone went Hiawatha.
+
+Through the clear, transparent water
+He could see the fishes swimming
+Far down in the depths below him;
+See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
+Like a sunbeam in the water,
+See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
+Like a spider on the bottom,
+On the white and sandy bottom.
+
+At the stern sat Hiawatha,
+With his fishing-line of cedar;
+In his plumes the breeze of morning
+Played as in the hemlock branches;
+On the bows, with tail erected,
+Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
+In his fur the breeze of morning
+Played as in the prairie grasses.
+
+On the white sand of the bottom
+Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
+Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
+Through his gills he breathed the water,
+With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
+With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
+
+There he lay in all his armor;
+On each side a shield to guard him,
+Plates of bone upon his forehead,
+Down his sides and back and shoulders
+Plates of bone with spines projecting!
+Painted was he with his war-paints,
+Stripes of yellow, red, and azure.
+Spots of brown and spots of sable;
+And he lay there on the bottom,
+Fanning with his fins of purple,
+As above him Hiawatha
+In his birch canoe came sailing,
+With his fishing-line of cedar.
+
+"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,
+Down into the depths beneath him,
+"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!
+Come up from below the water,
+Let us see which is the stronger!"
+And he dropped his line of cedar
+Through the clear, transparent water,
+Waited vainly for an answer,
+Long sat waiting for an answer,
+And repeating loud and louder,
+"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
+
+Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Fanning slowly in the water,
+Looking up at Hiawatha,
+Listening to his call and clamor,
+His unnecessary tumult,
+Till he wearied of the shouting;
+And he said to the Kenozha,
+To the pike, the Maskenozha,
+"Take the bait of this rude fellow,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+In his fingers Hiawatha
+Felt the loose line jerk and tighten;
+As he drew it in, it tugged so
+That the birch canoe stood endwise,
+Like a birch log in the water,
+With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Perched and frisking on the summit.
+
+Full of scorn was Hiawatha
+When he saw the fish rise upward,
+Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
+Coming nearer, nearer to him,
+And he shouted through the water,
+"Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are but the pike, Kenozha,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+Reeling downward to the bottom
+Sank the pike in great confusion,
+And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
+Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+To the bream, with scales of crimson,
+"Take the bait of this great boaster,
+Break the line of Hiawatha!"
+
+Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
+Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+Seized the line of Hiawatha,
+Swung with all his weight upon it,
+Made a whirlpool in the water,
+Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
+Round and round in gurgling eddies,
+Till the circles in the water
+Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
+Till the water-flags and rushes
+Nodded on the distant margins.
+
+But when Hiawatha saw him
+Slowly rising through the water,
+Lifting up his disk refulgent,
+Loud he shouted in derision,
+"Esa! esa! shame upon you!
+You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+You are not the fish I wanted,
+You are not the King of Fishes!"
+
+Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
+Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
+Heard his challenge of defiance,
+The unnecessary tumult,
+Ringing far across the water.
+
+From the white sand of the bottom
+Up he rose with angry gesture,
+Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
+Clashing all his plates of armor,
+Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
+In his wrath he darted upward,
+Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
+Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
+Both canoe and Hiawatha.
+
+Down into that darksome cavern
+Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
+As a log on some black river
+Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
+Found himself in utter darkness,
+Groped about in helpless wonder,
+Till he felt a great heart beating,
+Throbbing in that utter darkness.
+
+And he smote it in his anger,
+With his fist, the heart of Nahma.
+Felt the mighty King of Fishes
+Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
+Heard the water gurgle round him
+As he leaped and staggered through it,
+Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
+
+Crosswise then did Hiawatha
+Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
+Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
+In the turmoil and confusion,
+Forth he might be hurled and perish.
+And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
+Frisked and chattered very gayly,
+Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
+Till the labor was completed.
+
+Then said Hiawatha to him,
+"O my little friend, the squirrel,
+Bravely have you toiled to help me;
+Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
+And the name which now he gives you;
+For hereafter and forever
+Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
+Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
+
+And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Gasped and quivered in the water,
+Then was still, and drifted landward
+Till he grated on the pebbles,
+Till the listening Hiawatha
+Heard him grate upon the margin,
+Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
+Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
+Lay there dead upon the margin.
+
+Then he heard a clang and flapping,
+As of many wings assembling,
+Heard a screaming and confusion,
+As of birds of prey contending,
+Saw a gleam of light above him,
+Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
+Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
+Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
+Gazing at him through the opening,
+Heard them saying to each other,
+"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
+
+And he shouted from below them,
+Cried exulting from the caverns:
+"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
+I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
+Make the rifts a little larger,
+With your claws the openings widen,
+Set me free from this dark prison,
+And henceforward and forever
+Men shall speak of your achievements,
+Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
+Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
+
+And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
+Toiled with beak and claws together,
+Made the rifts and openings wider
+In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
+And from peril and from prison,
+From the body of the sturgeon,
+From the peril of the water,
+They released my Hiawatha.
+
+He was standing near his wigwam,
+On the margin of the water,
+And he called to old Nokomis,
+Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
+Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
+Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
+With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
+
+"I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
+Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;
+"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
+Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
+Drive them not away, Nokomis,
+They have saved me from great peril
+In the body of the sturgeon,
+Wait until their meal is ended,
+Till their craws are full with feasting,
+Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
+To their nests among the marshes;
+Then bring all your pots and kettles,
+And make oil for us in Winter."
+
+And she waited till the sun set,
+Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
+Rose above the tranquil water,
+Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
+From their banquet rose with clamor,
+And across the fiery sunset
+Winged their way to far-off islands,
+To their nests among the rushes.
+
+To his sleep went Hiawatha,
+And Nokomis to her labor,
+Toiling patient in the moonlight,
+Till the sun and moon changed places,
+Till the sky was red with sunrise,
+And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
+Came back from the reedy islands,
+Clamorous for their morning banquet.
+
+Three whole days and nights alternate
+Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls
+Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
+Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
+Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
+And upon the sands lay nothing
+But the skeleton of Nahma.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP          _C. W. Ashley_
+    The sun shone on her golden hair,
+      And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair ]
+
+
+
+THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
+
+
+"Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+  Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+  And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+The merchant's word
+Delighted the Master heard;
+For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+Giveth grace unto every Art.
+A quiet smile played round his lips,
+As the eddies and dimples of the tide
+Play round the bows of ships,
+That steadily at anchor ride.
+And with a voice that was full of glee,
+He answered, "Erelong we will launch
+A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,
+As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
+And first with nicest skill and art,
+Perfect and finished in every part,
+A little model the Master wrought,
+Which should be to the larger plan
+What the child is to the man,
+Its counterpart in miniature;
+That with a hand more swift and sure
+The greater labor might be brought
+To answer to his inward thought.
+And as he labored, his mind ran o'er
+The various ships that were built of yore,
+And above them all, and strangest of all
+Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
+Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
+With bows and stern raised high in air,
+And balconies hanging here and there,
+And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
+And eight round towers, like those that frown
+From some old castle, looking down
+Upon the drawbridge and the moat.
+And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
+Shall be of another form than this!"
+It was of another form, indeed;
+Built for freight, and yet for speed,
+A beautiful and gallant craft;
+Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
+Pressing down upon sail and mast,
+Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
+Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
+With graceful curve and slow degrees,
+That she might be docile to the helm,
+And that the currents of parted seas,
+Closing behind, with mighty force,
+Might aid and not impede her course.
+
+In the ship-yard stood the Master,
+With the model of the vessel,
+That should laugh at all disaster,
+And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
+
+Covering many a rood of ground,
+Lay the timber piled around;
+Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
+And scattered here and there, with these,
+The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
+Brought from regions far away,
+From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
+And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
+Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
+To note how many wheels of toil
+One thought, one word, can set in motion!
+There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
+But every climate, every soil,
+Must bring its tribute, great or small,
+And help to build the wooden wall!
+
+The sun was rising o'er the sea,
+And long the level shadows lay,
+As if they, too, the beams would be
+Of some great, airy argosy,
+Framed and launched in a single day.
+That silent architect, the sun,
+Had hewn and laid them every one,
+Ere the work of man was yet begun.
+Beside the Master, when he spoke,
+A youth, against an anchor leaning,
+Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
+Only the long waves, as they broke
+In ripples on the pebbly beach,
+Interrupted the old man's speech.
+
+Beautiful they were, in sooth,
+The old man and the fiery youth!
+The old man, in whose busy brain
+Many a ship that sailed the main
+Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--
+The fiery youth, who was to be
+The heir of his dexterity,
+The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
+When he had built and launched from land
+What the elder head had planned.
+
+"Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
+Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
+And follow well this plan of mine.
+Choose the timbers with greatest care;
+Of all that is unsound beware;
+For only what is sound and strong
+To this vessel shall belong.
+Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
+Here together shall combine.
+A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
+And the UNION be her name!
+For the day that gives her to the sea
+Shall give my daughter unto thee!"
+
+The Master's word
+Enraptured the young man heard;
+And as he turned his face aside,
+With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
+Standing before
+Her father's door,
+He saw the form of his promised bride.
+The sun shone on her golden hair,
+And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
+With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
+Like a beauteous barge was she,
+Still at rest on the sandy beach,
+Just beyond the billow's reach;
+But he
+Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
+
+Ah, how skilful grows the hand
+That obeyeth Love's command!
+It is the heart, and not the brain,
+That to the highest doth attain,
+And he who followeth Love's behest
+Far excelleth all the rest!
+Thus with the rising of the sun
+Was the noble task begun,
+And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
+Were heard the intermingled sounds
+Of axes and of mallets, plied
+With vigorous arms on every side;
+Plied so deftly and so well,
+That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
+The keel of oak for a noble ship,
+Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
+Was lying ready, and stretched along
+The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
+Happy, thrice happy, every one
+Who sees his labor well begun,
+And not perplexed and multiplied,
+By idly waiting for time and tide!
+
+And when the hot, long day was o'er,
+The young man at the Master's door
+Sat with the maiden calm and still,
+And within the porch, a little more
+Removed beyond the evening chill,
+The father sat, and told them tales
+Of wrecks in the great September gales,
+Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
+And ships that never came back again,
+The chance and change of a sailor's life,
+Want and plenty, rest and strife,
+His roving fancy, like the wind,
+That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
+And the magic charm of foreign lands,
+With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
+Where the tumbling surf,
+O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
+Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
+As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
+And the trembling maiden held her breath
+At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
+With all its terror and mystery,
+The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,
+That divides and yet unites mankind!
+And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
+From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
+The silent group in the twilight gloom,
+And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
+And for a moment one might mark
+What had been hidden by the dark,
+That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
+Tenderly, on the young man's breast!
+
+Day by day the vessel grew,
+With timbers fashioned strong and true,
+Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,
+Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
+A skeleton ship rose up to view!
+And around the bows and along the side
+The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
+Till after many a week, at length,
+Wonderful for form and strength,
+Sublime in its enormous bulk,
+Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
+And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
+Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething
+Caldron, that glowed,
+And overflowed
+With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
+And amid the clamors
+Of clattering hammers,
+He who listened heard now and then
+The song of the Master and his men:--
+
+"Build me straight, O worthy Master,
+  Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+  And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+
+With oaken brace and copper band,
+Lay the rudder on the sand,
+That, like a thought, should have control
+Over the movement of the whole;
+And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
+Would reach down and grapple with the land,
+And immovable and fast
+Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
+And at the bows an image stood,
+By a cunning artist carved in wood,
+With robes of white, that far behind
+Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
+It was not shaped in a classic mould,
+Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
+Or Naiad rising from the water,
+But modelled from the Master's daughter!
+On many a dreary and misty night,
+'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
+Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
+Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
+The pilot of some phantom bark,
+Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
+By a path none other knows aright!
+
+Behold, at last,
+Each tall and tapering mast
+Is swung into its place;
+Shrouds and stays
+Holding it firm and fast!
+
+Long ago,
+In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
+When upon mountain and plain
+Lay the snow,
+They fell,--those lordly pines!
+Those grand, majestic pines!
+'Mid shouts and cheers
+The jaded steers,
+Panting beneath the goad,
+Dragged down the weary, winding road
+Those captive kings so straight and tall,
+To be shorn of their streaming hair,
+And naked and bare,
+To feel the stress and the strain
+Of the wind and the reeling main,
+Whose roar
+Would remind them forevermore
+Of their native forests they should not see again.
+
+And everywhere
+The slender, graceful spars
+Poise aloft in the air,
+And at the mast-head,
+White, blue, and red,
+A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
+Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
+In foreign harbors shall behold
+That flag unrolled,
+'T will be as a friendly hand
+Stretched out from his native land,
+Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
+
+All is finished! and at length
+Has come the bridal day
+Of beauty and of strength.
+To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+And o'er the bay,
+Slowly, in all its splendors dight,
+The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+The ocean old,
+Centuries old,
+Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+Paces restless to and fro,
+Up and down the sands of gold.
+His beating heart is not at rest;
+And far and wide,
+With ceaseless flow,
+His beard of snow
+Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+He waits impatient for his bride.
+There she stands,
+With her foot upon the sands,
+Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+In honor of her marriage day,
+Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+Round her like a veil descending,
+Ready to be
+The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+On the deck another bride
+Is standing by her lover's side.
+Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+Broken by many a sudden fleck,
+Fall around them on the deck.
+
+The prayer is said,
+The service read,
+The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
+And in tears the good old Master
+Shakes the brown hand of his son,
+Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
+In silence, for he cannot speak,
+And ever faster
+Down his own the tears begin to run.
+The worthy pastor--
+The shepherd of that wandering flock,
+That has the ocean for its wold,
+That has the vessel for its fold,
+Leaping ever from rock to rock
+Spake, with accents mild and clear,
+Words of warning, words of cheer,
+But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
+He knew the chart
+Of the sailor's heart,
+All its pleasures and its griefs,
+All its shallows and rocky reefs,
+All those secret currents, that flow
+With such resistless undertow,
+And lift and drift, with terrible force,
+The will from its moorings and its course.
+Therefore he spake, and thus said he:--
+"Like unto ships far off at sea,
+Outward or homeward bound, are we.
+Before, behind, and all around,
+Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
+Seems at its distant rim to rise
+And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
+And then again to turn and sink,
+As if we could slide from its outer brink.
+Ah! it is not the sea,
+It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
+But ourselves
+That rock and rise
+With endless and uneasy motion,
+Now touching the very skies,
+Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
+Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
+Like the compass in its brazen ring,
+Ever level and ever true
+To the toil and the task we have to do,
+We shall sail securely, and safely reach
+The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
+The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
+Will be those of joy and not of fear!"
+
+Then the Master,
+With a gesture of command,
+Waved his hand;
+And at the word,
+Loud and sudden there was heard,
+All around them and below,
+The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+And see! she stirs!
+She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
+The thrill of life along her keel,
+And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+With one exulting, joyous bound,
+She leaps into the ocean's arms!
+
+And lo! from the assembled crowd
+There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+That to the ocean seemed to say,
+"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+Take her to thy protecting arms,
+With all her youth and all her charms!"
+
+How beautiful she is! How fair
+She lies within those arms, that press
+Her form with many a soft caress
+Of tenderness and watchful care!
+Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+Sail forth into the sea of life,
+O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+And safe from all adversity
+Upon the bosom of that sea
+Thy comings and thy goings be!
+For gentleness and love and trust
+Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
+And in the wreck of noble lives
+Something immortal still survives!
+
+Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+Humanity with all its fears,
+With all the hopes of future years,
+Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+We know what Master laid thy keel,
+What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+In what a forge and what a heat
+Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+'T is of the wave and not the rock;
+'T is but the flapping of the sail,
+And not a rent made by the gale!
+In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
+In spite of false lights on the shore,
+Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
+Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE CASTLE-BUILDER                _Olive Rush_
+    A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+      And towers that touch imaginary skies ]
+
+
+
+THE CASTLE-BUILDER
+
+
+A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
+  A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
+A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
+  And towers that touch imaginary skies.
+
+A fearless rider on his father's knee,
+  An eager listener unto stories told
+At the Round Table of the nursery,
+  Of heroes and adventures manifold.
+
+There will be other towers for thee to build;
+  There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
+There will be other legends, and all filled
+  With greater marvels and more glorified.
+
+Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
+  Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
+Listening to voices in the upper air,
+  Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: PAUL REVERE'S RIDE                _Howard Smith_
+    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door ]
+
+
+
+PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
+
+
+Listen, my children, and you shall hear
+Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
+On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
+Hardly a man is now alive
+Who remembers that famous day and year.
+
+He said to his friend, "If the British march
+By land or sea from the town to-night,
+Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
+Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
+One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
+And I on the opposite shore will be,
+Ready to ride and spread the alarm
+Through every Middlesex village and farm,
+For the country folk to be up and to arm."
+
+Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
+Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
+Just as the moon rose over the bay,
+Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
+The Somerset, British man-of-war;
+A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
+Across the moon like a prison bar,
+And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
+By its own reflection in the tide.
+
+Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
+Wanders and watches with eager ears,
+Till in the silence around him he hears
+The muster of men at the barrack door,
+The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
+And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
+Marching down to their boats on the shore.
+
+Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
+By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
+To the belfry-chamber overhead,
+And startled the pigeons from their perch
+On the sombre rafters, that round him made
+Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
+By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
+To the highest window in the wall,
+Where he paused to listen and look down
+A moment on the roofs of the town,
+And the moonlight flowing over all.
+
+Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
+In their night-encampment on the hill,
+Wrapped in silence so deep and still
+That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
+The watchful night-wind, as it went
+Creeping along from tent to tent,
+And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
+A moment only he feels the spell
+Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
+Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
+For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
+On a shadowy something far away,
+Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
+A line of black that bends and floats
+On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
+
+Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
+Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
+On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
+Now he patted his horse's side,
+Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
+Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
+And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
+But mostly he watched with eager search
+The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
+As it rose above the graves on the hill,
+Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
+And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
+A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
+He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
+But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
+A second lamp in the belfry burns!
+A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
+A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
+And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
+Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
+That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
+The fate of a nation was riding that night;
+And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
+Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
+
+He has left the village and mounted the steep,
+And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
+Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
+And under the alders that skirt its edge,
+Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
+Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
+
+It was twelve by the village clock,
+When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
+He heard the crowing of the cock,
+And the barking of the farmer's dog,
+And felt the damp of the river fog,
+That rises after the sun goes down.
+
+It was one by the village clock,
+When he galloped into Lexington.
+He saw the gilded weathercock
+Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
+And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
+Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
+As if they already stood aghast
+At the bloody work they would look upon.
+
+It was two by the village clock,
+When he came to the bridge in Concord town
+He heard the bleating of the flock,
+And the twitter of birds among the trees,
+And felt the breath of the morning breeze
+Blowing over the meadows brown.
+And one was safe and asleep in his bed
+Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
+Who that day would be lying dead,
+Pierced by a British musket-ball.
+
+You know the rest. In the books you have read.
+How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
+How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
+From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
+Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
+Then crossing the fields to emerge again
+Under the trees at the turn of the road,
+And only pausing to fire and load.
+
+So through the night rode Paul Revere;
+And so through the night went his cry of alarm
+To every Middlesex village and farm,--
+A cry of defiance and not of fear,
+A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
+And a word that shall echo forevermore!
+For, borne on the night-wind of the Past
+Through all our history, to the last,
+In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
+The people will waken and listen to hear
+The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
+And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+    "Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+      For a hundred year!" ]
+
+
+
+THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT
+
+
+Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
+  In his ship-yard by the sea,
+Whistling, said, "It would bewilder
+Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
+  Any man but me!"
+
+Near him lay the Dragon stranded,
+  Built of old by Raud the Strong,
+And King Olaf had commanded
+He should build another Dragon,
+  Twice as large and long.
+
+Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,
+  As he sat with half-closed eyes,
+And his head turned sideways, drafting
+That new vessel for King Olaf
+  Twice the Dragon's size.
+
+Round him busily hewed and hammered
+  Mallet huge and heavy axe;
+Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;
+Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
+  Spun the shining flax!
+
+All this tumult heard the master,--
+  It was music to his ear;
+Fancy whispered all the faster,
+"Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
+  For a hundred year!"
+
+Workmen sweating at the forges
+  Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
+Like a warlock's midnight orgies
+Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
+  With the boiling tar.
+
+Did the warlocks mingle in it,
+  Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
+Could you not be gone a minute
+But some mischief must be doing,
+  Turning bad to worse?
+
+'T was an ill wind that came wafting
+  From his homestead words of woe;
+To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
+Oft repeating to his workmen,
+  Build ye thus and so.
+
+After long delays returning
+  Came the master back by night;
+To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
+Hurried he, and did not leave it
+  Till the morning's light.
+
+"Come and see my ship, my darling!"
+  On the morrow said the King;
+"Finished now from keel to carling;
+Never yet was seen in Norway
+  Such a wondrous thing!"
+
+In the ship-yard, idly talking,
+  At the ship the workmen stared:
+Some one, all their labor balking,
+Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
+  Not a plank was spared!
+
+"Death be to the evil-doer!"
+  With an oath King Olaf spoke!
+"But rewards to his pursuer!"
+And with wrath his face grew redder
+  Than his scarlet cloak.
+
+Straight the master-builder, smiling,
+  Answered thus the angry King:
+"Cease blaspheming and reviling,
+Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
+  Who has done this thing!"
+
+Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
+  Till the King, delighted, swore,
+With much lauding and much thanking,
+"Handsomer is now my Dragon
+  Than she was before!"
+
+Seventy ells and four extended
+  On the grass the vessel's keel;
+High above it, gilt and splendid,
+Rose the figure-head ferocious
+  With its crest of steel.
+
+Then they launched her from the tressels,
+  In the ship-yard by the sea;
+She was the grandest of all vessels,
+Never ship was built in Norway
+  Half so fine as she!
+
+The Long Serpent was she christened,
+  'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
+They who to the Saga listened
+Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
+  For a hundred year!
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Own Longfellow
+by Henry W. Longfellow
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S OWN LONGFELLOW ***
+
+This file should be named chlng10.txt or chlng10.zip
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