IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 2.2 1^ US Ui I 40 2.0 1.8 U il.6 V y Culleamfi and kIooiiis that dart AciosH tlic Mchoolhoy'H brain ; The nnn'.r ami Uu; siletice in tlio hoart. That in part aru prophcoiea, and in part Arc lotiKin^s, wild and vain. There arc things of which I may not apeak There arc droanm that cannot dio ; There are thou^'hts that make the atronif heart weak, And brin^r a ])allor into the check, And a mist before tho eye." Among the *' glooms" of these early days were his experiences at a dame's school, kept by Ma'am Fellows, whose name will ever be embalmed in biography by her chief m.ixim, oft- repeated, "One should never smile in school hours." Portland Academy was the highest seat of learning in his native city, and that he attended for some years in preparation for college. As a schoolboy Longfellow was averse to all coarser sports, and to all exercise but walking. At home much of his time was given to ijQusic and reading. Moore and Cowper, the "Arabian Nights" and "Don Quixote" were favorites of his. But his chief delight was Washington Irving's "Sketch Book." " Every reader," says he, " has his first book : — I mean to say, one book among many others which in early youth first fascinates his ima- gination, and r».t once excites and satisfies the desires of his mind. I was a schoolboy when the "Sketch Book" was first published, and read each succeeding number with ever increas- ing wonder and delight, spellbound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy tenderness, its atmosphere of reverie. The old fascination remains about it, and whenever I open its pages, I also open that mysterious door which leads back into the haunted chambers of youth." Longfellow's father had graduated at Harvard, but the State of Maine had now a college of its own, — Bowdoin College at Brunswick. Thither, in 1822, were despatched Stephen and Henry Longfellow. At Bowdoin, Longfellow spent a tranquil life of three years. His contemporaries at Bowdoin, among whom was Nathaniel Hawthorne, remembered him as a shy youth, slow of speech, often absent-minded, always observant of duty, and proficient in all his college tasks. In 1825 Longfellow graduated, at the age of nineteen. At the senior examination he had attracted the attention of one of the trustees of the college by a neat translation of one of Horace's odes, and it was this lucky bit of literary work LIFB OF LONQPKLLOW. that led to his provisional appointment to the newly created chair of Modern Languages in Bowdoin. Longfellow was directed to spend some time in Europe to acquire a mastery of the lanffuages that he was to teach in his alma mater. His aspirations at this time may easily be seen in a letter to his father : *• I most eagerly aspire after eminence in literature ; my whole soul burns most ardently for it, and every earthly thought centres in it. There never was a better opportunity offered for the exertion of literary talent in our country than is now offered. If I can ever rise in the world, it must be by the exercise of my talent in the wide field of literature." In a later letter we stumble on this intense expression : "/ will he eminent in somethfng." Nothing could bar the progress of such a spirit as that. While a student at Bowdoin, Longfellow produced a number of small poems, some of them of considerable merit, — such as " An April Day," " Sunrise on the Hills," " Woods in Winter," " Autumn," ^nd " Hymn of the Moravian Nuns." It will be noticed that the spirit of Wordsworth breathes through nearly all of these juvenile efforts. In 1826 Longfellow set out for Europe to steep himself in the learning and culture of the Old World. This trans-atlantic tour meant much to the literature of America. This young man, a noble type of a rising nationality, was to bring back the scholarship of Europe and to plant it in a virgin soil, there to bud out into new forms of life and beauty. America, separated from Europe by a political and social gulf greater than the dividing ocean that rolls between them, was by this stripling to be bound back by tender ties to European taste and imagina- tion. A thirty days' sail from New York brought the young man to Havre, France. From Havie his route lay through the beautiful province of Normandy to Rouen. Everything in this antique land wore for him an air of freshness and novelty, and life was like a pleasant dream. His love for the romantic and for the picturesque was here stirred aud strengthened, and under the eager impulse of " The divine knight-errantry Of youth, that travels sea and land Seeking adventures," we see him flitting from place to place, along ancient highways and among ruined cathedrals, through the streets of crowded 1 t r c V I LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. cities and by the green hedge-rows of rural hamlets, his hun- ger for linguistic knowledge being almost subordinated to his unsatisHed thirst for fresh sights and sounds. He spent about a month in tht^ French capital, and then travelled by foot along the banks of the Loire from Orleans to Tours, through a dis- trict which is considered the garden of France. The winter of 18*20-7 was spent entirely in Paris. During this period Long- fellow dovot(;d hinis(!lf earnestly to practical tjbjects, acquiring a "protty extensive knowledge of the French language and literature. When the winter had ended, he started on a fresh tour of the country — this time from Paris to Bordeaux. He then crossed the Pyrenees to Spain, viewing leisurely the many interesting sights of that romantic land, and loitering for a time ill the old city of Madrid. His course next turned to- wards Seville and Cadiz. His delight in the wonderful ruins Df the Alhambra was unbounded. Returning to France, he began an extended tour through Italy in 1828. Genoa, Pisa, Florence, Home, Naples, Venice, were visited in turn. Then he roved northward to Vienna, Prague, Dresden, Leipsic, set- tling down to severe study for a time in Gottingen. Next he passed on to Frankfort-oi>the-Main, thence to Mayence, where he took steamer down the Rhine for Holland. He returned home by way of England in the summer of 1829. After an absence of more than three years, full of adventure and hard ivork, he was ready to enter on his professional duties at Bow- loin, the most accomplished scholar in America. The traditions of Bowdoin have handed it down that there pever was a more gentlemanly, a more industrious, or a more beloved teacher in the college than Professor Longfellow. It is interesting here to notice that a salary of $1000 per annum was considered sufficient remuneration for the services of this travelled and learned professor. In the second year of his professorship (1831) he married Ik, beautiful girl, Mary Storer Potter, of Portland. This mar- i'iage had a marked influence on the development of his genius. Even its sad sequel of a few years later gave to his poetic thoughts that undertone of patient regret that lends a sweet- ness to many of his songs. In 1833 Longfellow published a prose work of much merit, called, " Outre-Mer : a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea." The work was in method avowedly an imitation of the " Sketch Book,'' 6 LIFE OP LOMGPELLOW. and in literary merit it comes little short of that famous work. Towards the close of 1834 he was appointed Professor of Modern Languages in Harvard University, and in order to become better acquainted with the thought and literature of the Old World he determined to go again to Europe. He set out with his wife in April of 1835, After a pleasant sojourn in London, visiting Carlyle and other celebrities, he proceeded to Sweden. After a few months' study of Swedish at Stock- holm and of Danish at Copenhagen, he went to Holland to study the Dutch. At Rotterdam his wife fell ill, and after long suffering passed away. The shock was borne with almost stoic reticence, but the memory of the '* Being Beauteous" has been hallowed in enduring verse in that sweet dirge, " Foot- steps of Angeis": " With a slow and noiseless footstep Conies that nie^isen^cr divine, Takes the vacant chair bes'de mo, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes. Like the stars, so still and saintlike, Looking downward from the skies. Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears arc laid aside. If I bnt remember only Such as these have lived and died." The widowed poet souglit distraction from his loneliness in hard study at Heidelberg. There for the first time he met his already famous countryman, Bryant. From this place he passed next to Switznrland. At Interlaken he met a rich and genial American, Mr. Appleton, who, with his wife and family, was making a grand tour of the Continent. For the next few months he was much in the company of the Appletons, and a friendship sprang up between him and Mr. Appleton's fair and clever daughter Frances, — a friendship that resulted, after some years, in a dormer attachment. In December, 1836, Longfellow returned to America, and entered on his new duties at Harvard. Tie took up his abode at Cambridge in the old Craigie House, wi.^re once had lived George Washington, "the Father of his Country," In General Washington's chamber was born to Longfellow the inspiring thought and hope that lie himself was to be the father of his country in another and more spiritual domain. X^ LIFE OP LONGFELLOW. Longfellow's work at Harvard did not tax him so much as his Bowdoin work had done. He had ample leisure for the company of a few learned friends, and for the fostering of his poetic impulses. These early years at Harvard wanted only one element to make them supremely happy. The voice of a loving woman was not heard continually as in the halcyon days at Bowdoin. The great want of his heart was the harder to bear because the image of a living lady flashed up before him in many of his longing reveries. This lady he was destined to win in a mode quite novel and unparalleled in the history of romantic court- ships. None but the fertile and bold imagination of a poet would have dreamed of winning the idol of his heart through the persuasive tones of the hero of a story. In the winter of 1838-9 he planned and carried to completion his almost quixotic conception. In the summer of 1839 the book appeared with the title, " Hyperion : A Eomance." All those who had any knowledge of Longfellow's ti'aveis in Switzerland could not fail to see the author's secret purpose. The work was plainly auto- biographical. Paul Flemming, the hero, is liongfellow the wid- ower ; Mary Ashburton, the heroine, is Frances Appleton. In a hundred suggestive ways throughout the book, the author showed his reverence and love for her whom he was thus publicly wooing. The description of the radiant heroine of the story besides serving to reveal the intensity of the author's affection, will also serve to display the ornate style of his prose, giving unmistakable indications that his instincts were poetic. " Presently a female figure, clothed in black, entered the room and sat down by the window. She rather listened to the con- versation than joined in it ; but the few words she said were spoken in a voice so musical and full of soul, that it moved the soul of Flemming like a whisper from heaven. He would fain have sat and listened for hours to the sound of that unknown voice. He felt sure, in his secret heart, that the being from whom it came was beautiful. Mary Ashburton was in her twentieth summer. They did her wrong who said she was not beautiful ; and yet • She was not fair, Nor beautiful ; those words express her not, But, oh, her looks had somethinfj excellent. That wants a name' Her face had a wonderful fascination in it. It was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the rising soul shining so 8 LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. pejicefully through it. At times it wore an expression of seri- ousness — of sorrow even; and then seemed to make the very air briglit with the lightning of her angelic smile. And, oh, those eyes — those deep, uiuitterable eyes, with down-falling eyelids, full of dreams and slumber, and within them a cold, livinjr liffht, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the river of Paradise. I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Tiiose only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady, lam- bent light — are luminous but not sparkling, "The lady's figure was striking. Every step, every attitude was graceful and yet lofty, as if inspired by the soul within. Angels in the old poetic philosophy have such forms ; it was the soul itself imprinted on the air. And what a soul was hers ! a temple dedicated to lieaven. Theie was not one dis- cordant tiling in her ; but a perfect harmony of tigure and face and soul — in a word, of the whole being. And he who had a soul to comprehend hers must of necessity love her, and having once loved her, could love no other woman for ever- more." And what was the outcome of this daring mode of wooing ? The book, we are told, seriously otlended Miss Appleton at lirst, however much she admired the f^plendid talents and I'efreshing frankness of her handsome wooer. The poet seems to have been half ashamed of his liold experiment, for not till four years afterwards did he propose to Fi-ances Appleton in the way usual among ordinary mortals. J>y that t'me she had forgiven the method of "Hyperion" and accepted her poet- lover, who in the meantime had risen into the very zenith of poetic fame. In the autumn of the year in which " Hyperion " appeared (1839), Longfellow published his first volume of poems under the general title of the " Voices of the Night." This little volume formed an epoch in the history of American literatute. Some of the gems of this collection are : " Hymn to the Night," "A Psalm of Life," "The Reaper and the Flowers," and " Footsteps of An':'els." In 1841 appeared "Ballads and other Poems." Among the most noteworthy poems of this collection are : " Excelsior," "Maidenhood," and "The Village Blacksmith." In 1842 Longfellow visited Europe for the third time. On this occasion he was in quest of a cure for nervous exhaustion. LIPK OP LONGFELLOW. 9 ana ; the ior," On ition. He went to England and France, and spent the summer at a watering-place on tho Rhine. ]t was to busy himself on his return voyage that he wrote his "Poems on Slavery." In 1843 — the year of his second marriage— lie published a dramatic poem on which he had long been working — "The Spanish Student." The work shows clearly that Longfellow's genius was not dramatic. In 1846 appeared " The Belfry of Bruges, and other Poems," containing among other favorites, " The Arsenal at Spring- field " and " The Arrow and the Song." The year 1847 witnessed the publication of " Evangeline," a tale on which the poet had been engaged for two years. The circumstances that suggested this remarkable poem and some observations regarding the poem itself will be found in another place. The success of tlie poem was so immediate and remark- able that thirty-seven thousand copies were sold in ton years I Longfellow's name now became a household word on two con- tinents. In 1849 was published " Kavanagh," a story of New Eng- land life and customs. Although superior to "Hyperion" in literary taste, the story never gained the great popularity which the intensely romantic interest of the earlier tale commanded. A new book of poems appcsared in 1850, "The Seaside and the Fireside." The most touching poem in the volume is "Resignation." The most striking piece, and the one most beloved by all Americans, is "The Building of the Ship." In 1851 appeared "The Golden Legend," a dramatic poem whose design is to present a series of pictures illustrating dif- ferent aspects of life in the Middle Ages. In 1854 Longfellow resigned his professorship at Harvard, to be succeeded by James Russell Lowell. For eighteen years his literary work had been performed in the odds ai tl ends of time that remained to him after the faithful performance of his duties as an instructor of young men. Henceforth he determined to devote all his time to his beloved art. In 1855 appeared "The Song of Hiawatha," a poem based on the folk-lore of the American Indians. By this work Long- fellow gained one of the greatest literary triumphs of the cen- tury. One hundred thousand copies were sold in two years, and its popularity seems not to wane. The universal faith of 10 LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. Americans in the enduring fame of " Hiawatha " is voiced in tliese words of a modern critic : " When the redskins them- selves have died from off the face of the American continent, there will always be men and women ready to follow the poet into the primeval forests, see him make for himself a woodland flute, piping to the poor, painted braves and making them dance, weeping with the weeping squaws, attuning his laughter to the soft babble of their streamy, and giving himself, like them, such a companionship with birds and beasts and fishes, prairie, mountains and trees, as is not likely to find similar utterance in any future century on this globe of ever-increasing populousness." In 1858 followed "The Courtship of Miles Standish." Its purpose was to describe the deeds and sufferings of the primi- tive Plymouth colony. Like "Evangeline," it was a product of the soil, and at once gained great popularity. ^ turn to the poet's private life: The year 1861 brought a calamity from the effects of which he never quite recovered. On a July day his wife was burned to death before his very eyes. After the first shock was over he was hardly ever heard to allude to the drejidful event. For many a day no entry waa made in his previously well-kept diary, and his friends noticed thereafter that though his lips were silent as the grave regarding his terrible loss, his aspect told the secret of his heart, and age began its rapid work upon his face and form. The next published work of the poet was " Tales of a Way- side Inn "(1863). These poems had already seen the light serially in " The Atlantic Monthly." A second series of "Tales of a Wayside Inn" appeared nine years later (1872), and a third series in 1873. The plan of the " Tales," with some references to the characters and scenes contained therein, will be given in another place. In the early years of his Harvard life, Longfellow had begun a translation of Dante's "Divine Comedy." The work was completed and published in three volumes in 1867. It is regarded as the best translation of Dante in the English language. In 1868 Longfellow went again to Europe. During his tour of over a year in England he was made much of. The Queen sent for him, and gave him a generous welcome. Cambridge University gladly bestowed on him the degree of LL.B., and Oxford University that of D.C.L LIFE OP LONGFELLOW. 11 Among the later poems of Longfellow that deserve notice is the domestic idyl which appeared in 1874, "The Hanging of the Crane." Although the poem is not one of Longfellow's best, its subject, an idealized description of a house-warming, appeals to the popular taste. During the next eight years Longfellow's pen was scarcely ever idle, hut no master-piece can be expected from a bard who has reached the limit of life sot by the Psalmist. On March 24th, 1882, Henry W. Longfellow passed tranquilly away at the ripe age of seventy-five. Whether Longfellow's fame is for a generation or for ever, only time can tell. He may not be one of the world's very greatest poets — there are even American poets who excel him in certain qualities — but he who has stirred thousands of hearts, and gladdened and refreshed thousands of sad and wearied lives, deserves, and will ever receive, the benedictions of his country and his race. " His heart was pnro, his purpose high, His thought seruiie, his patience vast ; He put all strifes of passion hy, And lived to God from flrst to last. His song was like the pine tree's sigh Ai midnight o'er a poet's grave ; Or like the sea-hird's distant cry. Borne far across the twilight wave. There is no flower of meek delight, There is no star of heavenly pride, That shines not sweeter and more bright Because he lived, loved, sang, and died." sen 'I EVANGELINE Si ^alc ot Jlcaliu This is the forest prinitiviil. The miirmurinj]^ pines and the hemlocks, Bearded witli moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight. Stand like liruids of eld, with voices sad and pro- phetic. Stand liko harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. *» Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neigh- boring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beuviath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? Where is the thatch-roofed village, tlie iiome of Aca- dian 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 for ever departed ' \ wmmmmiimmmtm EVANGELINE. 13 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 alFection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Yo wlio believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion. List to tlie mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the for(!st ; List to a Tale of Lcve 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-Prd Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastwaril. Giving the village its name and pasture to flocks without" number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with laboi incessant, 2' bhut 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 fii'lils of Hax, and orchards and cornfields d'luu afar and unfenced o'er t Sp to the northward pk I way Blomidon rose mountains and the forests old, and aloft on the ^0 Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the miL'htv Atlantic ifl V 14 BVANGBLINB. Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. There, in the midst of its fp.rnis, reposed tJie Acadian vilhige. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of heiulock, 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 *o Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles witliin doors Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down tlie street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them, *5 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 iield, and serenely the 3un 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. \ \ ^ ) ..^i~^._ •AnMMlHMti BVANQELINB. 16 Thus dwelt tof^ether 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. 6S 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 th'i oak-leaves. 65 Fiiir W.IS she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers ; Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses ! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide ^^ Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret 16 BVANQELINE. Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles tlie congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and lier niisf-al, 76 Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the earrings Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. But a celestial )>rightness — a more ethtu'eal beauty — Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confessi(in, so Homeward serenely she v;alked with God's benedic- tion 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 conimanding the sea ; and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreatli- ing around it. 8^ Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a footr^,th 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 ; SSu^nriMnBsaa! KVANCiKLlNK. 17 Tliere stood thebrond whoelod wains and tlie anti(jue ploughs and the harrows ; There were the folds for tlie 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 slieltering 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 fa rm, and Evangeline governed his household. '05 Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion ; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! Many a suitor came to her door by the darkness befriended, And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, 110 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 18 BVANGBLINB. Hurried words of love, that seemed n. part of the music. But among all who came young Gabriel only was welcome ; i'5 Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the black- smith, Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men ; For since the birth of time, throughout all agt^a and nations, Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the Deople. Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood . ^20 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. 126 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 gather- ing darkness 130 Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, Warm by the forge within they watched the labor- ing bellows. And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes. Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. EVANOKLINK. 19 the sson the eyes as a the e of her- ugh bor- din oing Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, I''' Down tlie 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 ! 140 Thus passed a few swift years, and tliey no longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his face like the face of the morning, Gladd(Mied 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 146 Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples ; She too would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance. Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. II. Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. -^0 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 tr3os of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. i I 20 EVANGEILINE. All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 155 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 ! ICO Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the landscape Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of child- hood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moinent consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm -yards, 165 Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing or 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 '0 Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Bay 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, irfMMaMM rfiiiiT •-' EVANGRLINE. 21 ;ring th \vi Ictiou auci the I their i'^^ And with their nostrils distended inhaling the fresh- ness of evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon th ' waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of huma » affection. Then came the shepherd back with his 1 leating flocks from the seaside, 180 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, 185 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 pon- derous saddles, ^80 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 ♦^.heir udder.s Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 1^^ Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, I i < ^^ geeWM j 22 KVANGRLINB. 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 200 Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Be- hind 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 205 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 Burgun- dian vineyards. 210 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 frag- ments together. 216 As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. rfHjiX-Lia g EVANGELINE. 23 Footfalls aro 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. s of ,hera rgun- reline orner IS its e the } f rag- ir at Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and suddenly lifted. Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 220 Jienedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. " Welcome ! " the farm(!r exclaimed, as their foot- steps 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 ; 225 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, zso Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — " Benedict Belief on taine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad ! Ever in cheerfuUest mood art thou, when others are filled with (Jloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." 2'^'' Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 24 EVANGiaiN'K I I > And with a coal from the einhers had lighted, he slowly continued : — "Four days now are passed since the Eni^lish ships at their anchors Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with tiieir cannon pointed against us. What their design may be is uidcnown ; Imt all are commanded 240 On the moirow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate Will he proclairiKHl as law in the land. AUis ! in the meantime 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 har- vests in England 2*5 By ujitimely 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 foi'gotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. 260 Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, Waiting with anxious heart the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of tlu^ mower." Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — 256 " Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of ou» flocks and our cornfields, Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, I EVANGELINE. 25 I Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy'i cannon. Fear no evil, my friend, and to-niglit may no shadoM of sorrow- Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. 260 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?" 265 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. nor [•k on te of apons id the jovial flocks )y the 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 ; 270 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 tlian a hundred Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. 275 Four long years in tlin times of the war had he languished a captive, N II f 26 EVANGKLINE. Suffering much in jin 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 ; 280 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 unchristcned Died, aTid was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, *8B And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, And of the nicU'vellous 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 extend- ing his right hand, *80 " 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 no better than others. 29^ Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil inten- tion Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us 1 " ,1 1 ■:, EVANOELTNB. 27 "God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith ; " Must we in all thiiii^s look for the how, and the why, and the wJHirefore 1 Daily injustice is done, and nnght is the right of the strongest ! " ^^^ But, without lieeding 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 305 When his neighbors complained that any injustice was (lone 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 si sword, as an emblem that justice presided '^^^ Over the laws of the land, and tlie 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 31^ Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a noble- man^s palace That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a «aspicion Fell on aTi orphan girl who lived as maid in the nousehoid. She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, 28 KVANCJKIilNK. l*{itiontly lui'i Ium- tloom at tlio foot of tho at;ituo of Juslic'i. 8-^^ As ti) hor Kiithor in Iumvoii her iimoci'iit spirit ivscondctl, Lo ! o'er tlui city iv tcMiipost rose ; iuid tho holts of tho thumlor Smote tho stutuo of hron/o, jiiul hurlod in wnitli from its loft h;uul Down on tho pavemont holow the chittering «OiUes of tho hahmoo, And in tho hollow tlioroof was found the nest of a ma-^'pio, *25 Into wiioso clay-huilt walls tho nocklaco of pearls was inwoven." Silenced, hut not oonvincfd, when tho story was ended, tlio hlacksniith Stood like a man who fain would speak, hut lindoth no hinguuge ; All his thou>^iits wore con<;oalcd into linos on his face, as the vapors Freeze in fantastic shapes on tho winih)W-panes in the winter. 830 Then Evangeline lighted tho brazen lamp on the tahlo, Filled, till it ovorllowod, tho pewter tankard with home-hrcwed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in tho village of Orand-Pic ; While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, Wrote with a steady hand the ilato and tho ago of tho parties, 8^ Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and weii were completed, And the great seal of tho law was set like a suu on the margin. Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table •'1 ;. ti 13 D st'ltUO of ''"t spirit » l-olts of i» wrath "oalos of ^(^st of a 'lU'Is was J»T was lindcth lis fiioo, iiics in on the with in the iipers >'o of loep kvero 1 on ' on KVANdlCI-INi;. Throe iinma the old inan's fcc! in aolid pi(»co8 of silvcM- ; ^*o And the notary rising', and bhf.s.sin^'iho bride and the l)riih^j,'r()()>n, Lifted aloft the taidtard of ale and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lip, ho solemnly bowed and departed, While in silence the others sat and mused by the fire- side;, Till Kvangolino brought tlio draught-board out of its corner. "'♦^ Soon was the ganns begun. In friendly contention th(5 old mcMi r.aughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful niaiuctivre, 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 eni])rasure. Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 3f'0 Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. Silently one by one in he infinite meadows of heaven. Blossomed the lovely stars, the f(n'got-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 3'''' R()S(i 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 wore covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone, Aud on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the larmer. 29 30 EVANGELINE. ^0 Soon with a soundless stej. tljo foo^ of P>nng('Hne followed. Up the staircase moved a luminous sj)ace in tlie dark- ness, Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. SiJT^ple that cliamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press 365 Ample and liigh, on whose spacious shelves were care- fully folded Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. This was the precious dower she would brinu; 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 870 Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden Swelled and obeyed its |>ower, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. Ah I 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, 876 Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of hei lamp and her shadow. Yet were her thouglits 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 lor a moment. And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass 880 Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one stir toiiow her footsteps, EVANGELINE. 81 As out of Abraliam's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar. IV. Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pr^. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 8S5 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 390 Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numer- ous meadows, "Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward. Group after gioup 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 2^^ Sat ill the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted ; yor 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 : 400 For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father; / 82 EVANOELINB. Bright was her face with smiles, and words of wel- come and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, and Llfssed the cup as she gave it. ^^ ly^'* ' Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orcliard, Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of be- trothal. *<^^ There in tlie sliade of tlio porch were the priest andcr the notary seated ; » > There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the black- ^ smith. 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 *io Hair, as it waved in the wind ; an(. the jolly face of the fiddler Glowed like a living coal when the aslies are blown from the embiirs. Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, Tons lea Bourgeois de CI i art res, and T^e Carillon de Dunkerque, And anon with his wooden shoes beat tiiin; to the music. *i^ 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 tliem. Fairest of uU tlie maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daugliter ! Noblest of all the youtlis was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith I *20 So passed the morning away. And lo! with a sum- mons sonorous \ \ I EVANUKLINB. 85 )lack- I , le i \ i Souiuled tlio boll from its tower, and ovor tliu>wed ows a drum beat. Tliron^'cd erulong was tin; churcli with moii. Will. out, iu tlio climclrai(l, Waited tliu woukmi. Tlicy stood l)y tho graves, and hung oil tlio hcatlHtoiio.s (Jarlaiuls of aiitiuiin-loavoH and evorgrooiis frosh from the forest. ''-^ Then camo tho guard from tho .ships, and marching proudly among tlioiii Kntered tho sacrod portal. With loud and dissonant clangor Kchoud the sound of thoir brazen drums from ceil- ing and casement,-— Echoed a nu)ment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closcil, and in .silence tho crowd awaited tho will of the soldier.s. 430 Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of tho altar, Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, tho royal commission. " You are convened this day," he said, " by his Maj- esty'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 435 Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver tho 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 440 Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people I Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's pleasure!" EVANGELINE. BrigV when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, "^ Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and shat- ters hie windows, *^5 Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their en- closures ; 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, ^50 And, by one impulse moved, they madly ruslied 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, witli his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the ])illows. 455 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 con- tention, Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. KVANORLINB. 35 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 mad- ness has seized you 1 Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, Not in word alone, hut in deed, to love one another 1 *70 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 1 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, ' Father, forgive them ! ' Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us. Let us repeat it now, and say, *0 Father, forgive them!'" Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people *s<^ Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak. While they repeated his prayer, and said, '* 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, 36 EVANGELINE. Not with their lips alone, but their hearts j and the Ave Maria *85 Sang they, and fell on their knees, aud 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, — Cliarity, 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, ^ EYANQKLINB. 37 ^5 Urged by theit household cares, and the weary feet of their chihlren. Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glim- mering va})ors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descend- ing from Sinai. Sweetly over the village the hell of the Angelas sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evan- geline lingered. f'i<* All was silent within ; and in vain at the door am the windows Stood she, and listened and looked, until, 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. ^15 Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the su|)per 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 flfth day r V K 38 EVANUKMNK. 626 Cliceiily called tho cock U) tho sleeping niaitls of the fjinn-houso. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and monrnful procession, Canio from the neiglihoriiig hamlets and farms tho Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to tho sea- shore, Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 630 j^i-i) tluiy were shut from sight by tho winding road and the woodland. Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen. While in tlieir little hands they clasped some frag- ments of playthinga Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on the sea-beach Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. ^^36 AH dt-y lonir between the shore and the ships did the boats ply ; All day long tho wains came laboring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, Eclioed far o'er the fields came tho roll of drums from the, churchyard. Thither tho women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors 6*^ Opened, and forth came tho 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 de- scended EVANGELINE. 89 6*6 Down from tlio cliurch to tho slioro, amid their wives and their (hiu^'htera. Foremost tlie young men came ; and, raising together tlieir voices, Sang with tremulous lips a chant of tho Catholic Missions : — " Sacred heart of tho Saviour ! O inoxhaustihlo fountain ! Kill our hearts this day with strength and suhmission and patience ! " '»*' Then the old meu, as they marched, and tho women that stood l)y the wayside Joined in the sacnid psalm, and tho birds in the sun- shine above them Miugletl their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. Half-way down to tho shore Evangeline waited in silence, Not overcome with grief, but strong in tho hour of iiniiclion, — '5'' Calmly and sadly she waited, until tho procession approached her, And she boheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. Tears then tilled 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 wo love one anotiier 660 Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances niay happen ! " Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she slowly advancing. Alas 1 hov/ changed was his aspect ! Gone was tho glow from his cheek, and tho fire from his eye, and his footstep Heavier seemed with the weight of tho heavy heart in his bosom. 665 But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, 40 EVANGELINE. Speaking words of endearment where words of com- fort availed not. 'Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mourn- ful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confu- sion 570 WTives were torn from ♦^heir husbands, and mothers, too late, saw th • children Left on +.he 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 Eled 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, S80 All escape cut otf by the sea, and the sentinels near them, Lay er camped 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. ^85 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 j EVANGELINE. 41 Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm -yard, — Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus sounded, ^^ Rose no smoke from the roofs, f^nd 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. 5^5 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 Evang^eline sat with her father, And in the : ickering light beheld the face of the old man, . 600 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 com- passion. More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents 43 V EVANGELmiB. •V , 'n^tSr- ^-- His W „„ .e .ea. 0, Ka.3«tea,.„,e,eseot.e.„e„..ta.tWaWe ^'"»oX'5"'"'''^-'''''"«Kasi„aut„„„ Moon climbs the crystal ,v„i,, „, . «»T,> ,-,°"^°" """' """"»'«n. and o'er the iitan.hkost.etchesitahundr6dh„, I _ . . and meadow, "'' """"'^ "Po" nmuntain Seizing the rocks and tl,„ • shadows together. """■'• ^"<> P"'»g huge !^""WC'"--'«-edonthe.o.o, Weamed on the slcv and ti,„ „, % in the roSad ""'' ""'' '"« ""> that C^oJumns of shinin„ 1 ^^, flame wt"'"* ^'""'^'"'P^-. «nd flashes of •^ Thrust through their folds and -.u. Then rriiat^ »' l-tr'''^^''-' "-^^ «>« mi /S^'f - -d uTStln'^ «'^^* -^ 'he burning Whirled them aloft throush tl,» • hundred house-to™ ""■' *' "»"« f™™ a Started he sheeted smoke with fl , wingled. ""^ "'* ""'hes of flame inter. These things behpM ;„ j- ._ 'heiralgtl""'' "'"''• "•™ "-^ aloud i„ ^ :' GraX?2 "■-'«""'— n the viUag, EVANGELINE. 43 Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, ThiiiMng the day Imd dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. (,30 Xhen rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments Far in the western prairies ;eC forests tliat skirt the Nebraska, When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of tlie whirlwind. Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. Such was tlie sound that arose on the night, as the herds t,nd the horses 6* Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. cr' 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 de- parted. Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maide'h 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, 44 EVANOKLINK. Pallid, with tearful oyes, and looks of saddost rotn- passion. Still the blaze of the burninj^ village illinnined the landscapt',, Reddened the sky overhead, and j^'leanied on the faces around her, ^^ And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. Then a familipif voice she heard, as it said to the people, — "Let us bury him here by the sea. When a liappier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, Then shall his sacred dust bo piously laid in the churchyard." ^5^ Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the seaside, Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, . But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pr^. And as the voice of the priest repealed the service of sorrow, Lo 1 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 lieaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; And with the ebb of the tide the shii>s sailed out of the harbor, •®^ Leaving behind tlicm the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. KVANOKI.INN. 46 TAUT TllK SKIJONO. I. Many a W(siry y*"ii' I'li^l piissod siiico tlm buniiiij^ of (i rami Pre, Wlioii on Uic- liilliii^ lido tim fnMj^liloil vossols (1(5- partiul, lloiiriii;^ 11 nalittn, with all ils liousuhold god.s, into cxilo, Kxilo without an (Mid, and willioul an (^xaniplo in story. •J^o l^jii- iisundcr, on separate coasts, tlio Aitadians landcil. Scattcied won; tlicy, like llakos of snow, whon tiici wind from tlio northeast Strikes aslant through tho fogs that darken the lianks of Newfoundland. Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, F-.om the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, — 675 l^'rom the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, Deep in their sands to buiy the scattered bones of the mammoth. Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despair- ing, heart-broken, Asked of the earth but a grave, and ~o longer a friend nor a fireside. ®^ Written their history stands on tablels of stone in the churchyards. Long among them was seen a maidor/. who waited and wandered. Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended. Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 40 EVANGELINE. ^^ Marked by tho j^'iuvch of tliosu who Imd sorrowed and 8utr(!red before licr, Passions lonj; extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoncnl, As tho emigrant's way o'er tlio Western desert is marked hy Camp-tires long consumed, and bones tliat bleach in the sunsiiino. Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, untinished ; ^^ As if a morning of June, with all its music and sun- shine, Suddeidy paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, *95 She would commence again her endless search and endeavor ; Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones, Sat by some nameless grave*, and thought that perhaps in its bosom He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 700 Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him. But it was long ago, in some far-off place or for- gotten. " Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " they said ; "Oh, yes ! we have seen him. He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies ; 705 Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." BVANQELINB. 47 "Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said otlierB j "Oh, yes! we havo seen liiin. He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." Then would tliey say, •' Dear child ! why dream and wait for him longer 1 Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel 1 others 710 Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal 1 Here is Jiaptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee Many a tedious year , come, give him thy hand and oe happy ! Thou art too fair to l>e left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, " I cannot ! 716 Whither my heart has gone, there follows n\y hand, and not elsewhere. For when the heart goes before, like p lamp, and illumines the pathway. Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." Thereupon the priest, her friend and father confessor, Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee ! '20 Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment ; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy work of affection ! ^^26 Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike. Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven I " 48 EVANGELINE. '■I Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited. Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, 730 But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, " Despair not ! " Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheer- less discomfort, Bleedin?;, barefooted, ov^r the shards and thorns of existence. Let rae essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; 735 But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : Far frcv.1 its margin at times, and seeing the ;j]eam oi its water Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only , Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, • Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur 3 740 Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. . m \ It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mis sissippi, Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 745 It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating to- gether, Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune • EVANGELINE. 49 Men and women and children, who guided by hope or by hearsay, Sought for their kith and their kin among the few- acred farmers 7^0 On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Ope- lousas. With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests. Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 755 Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. 760 Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens. Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins and dove-cots. They were approaching the region where reigns per- petual summer, Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, "^^^ Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. ill 50 EVANGELINE. Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress 770 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in raid-air Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset, Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 7^6 Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water. Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sus- taining the arches, Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them ; And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, — 780 Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies. Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa. So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil. Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. 785 But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. It was the thought of her brain that a::sumed the shape of a phantom. Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her. And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. EVANGELINE. 5] 780 Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, And, as a signal sound, if others like them perad- venture Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to the forest. 7^^ Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. 8<^" Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight. Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat- songs, Suih as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert. Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the forest, 805 Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades ', and befoi'o tliem Lay, in the golden sun, the hikes of the Atchafalaya. Water-liiies in myriads rooked on the slight undu- lations Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 810 Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boat- men. Faint was the air with the odorous breath of mag- nolia blossoms. V ; n [ I 52 EVANGELINE. And with the heat of noon ; and numberless sylvan islands, Fragrant and thickly emboweiod \'i h blossoming (nfyy^l^' hedges of roses, Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. 81^ Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars we?"> suspended. Under the teacs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin, Safelv tJieir boat was moored ; and scattered about on the greensward, Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. 820 Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet flower and the grape-vine Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the latlder of Jacob, On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, de- scending. Were the swift humming birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slum.- bered beneath it. 8-5 Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands. Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water. Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 830 Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thought- ful and careworn. Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness a . .1 EVANGELINE. 53 irs wep"> Somewhat Ibeyond his yoars on his face was legibly written. • Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 835 Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island. But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos ; So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows ; ^ All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and un- seen, were the sleepers ; 8*0 Angel of God was there none to awaken the slum- bering maiden. • Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie, ^fter the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician ! 845 Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition? Or has an angel passed, and reveabd the truth to my spirit ? " • Then, with a blush, s?ie added, "Alas for my credu- lous fancy ! Unto eais like thine such words as these have no meaning. 8'0 lint made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, — "Daugliter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning. Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. lit" 'J ii i.'i 11 ' I ! I 1 " "K I 94 EVANGF.LINE. Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the worlc* calls illusions. 855 Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the southward, On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom. There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees ; ^^ Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. They who dwell there have named it thci Eden of Louisiana." With these words of cheer they arose and con- tinued their journey. Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon ^5 Like a magician extei\ded his golden wand o'er the landscape ; Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver. Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the mo- tionless water. 870 Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. Then from a neighboring thicltet the mocking-bird, wildest of singers. EVANGELINE. 55 Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, 87£> Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soar- ing to madness Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lam- entation ; 880 Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision. As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. With such a prelude as tiiis,and hearts that throbbed with emotion, Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, 885 And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neigh- boring dwelling ; — Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. Ml. Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, 890 Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blos- soms. Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers 1^ I!:; I i 56 KVANCIllJNK. Hewn from tlio cypicss troo, and oai'ofully lithnl to- gotlier. '^^•' LiU'go and low was tlio roof; and on sUmuUm* columns supported, Rose-wroatli(nl. vino-onciri'lcd, a broad and spacious veranda, Haunt of ihc! humniiiii; I'ird and tlu^ \)V0, extended around it. ^t each end of the house, amid the (lowers of the ii^arden, Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual svnihol, '^'^ (Scenes of endless wooiui,', and (Mulles^> contentions of rivals. Silence reijjjned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine Ran neai" the tops of the trees ; hut the house itself was in shadow. And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly ex- panding Into the evening air, a tliin l)lue column of smoke rose. ^^^ In the rear of the liouse, from the garden-gate, ran a pathway Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie. Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly de- scending. Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas Hanging loose fiom their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, ^^^ Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape vines. Oust where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairi(% Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. SSP EVANOKLINB. 57 Broad and brown was the face that from under the Hpanisli somWrcM'o "'^ Cia/.ed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. Round about him were numberless herds of kine that w(;r(5 grazing Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freslnujss Tliat uprosci from the rivei", and spr(!ad itself over the landscape;. Slowly lifting the horn that liung at his side, and expanding 0'2o i^ully liis broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that re- sounded Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle Rose like (lakes of foam on the adverse currents of oc(;an. Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, ^^^ And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. Then, as the herdsman tu,rned to the house, through the gate of the gardcm Saw he the forms of the piiest and the maiden ad- vancing to m(!et bin?. Suddenly down from liis horse he sprang in amaze ment, and forward Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; 030 Wlien they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith. Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. ^' ir 58 evan(;klink. :t: ;; • :, 036 Thoughtful, for Gabriel ciiuio not ; and now dark doubts and uiis(^, that v/as lillod with sweet Natohi- to(!hes tohact'.o, ^^ Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and sniihid as they listoned : — "Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless, Welcome once mor(^ to a home, that is hotter per- chance than the, old one ! Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like tho rivers ; Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of tho farmer ; **^ Smoothly the ploughsharo runs tlirough the soil, as a koel through the water. All the year round tho orange-groves are in bloss(Mn ; and grass grows • More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies ; Here, too, lands may bo had for the asking, and forests of timber ^^ With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, l',V,\N(i;i,INK. 61 iJiiriiin^' yniii' (Iwcllin^'s .iml Ii.iium, hikI stisiliny ytiiir I'arins Jiinl yimr (mIIIc" Speak i III:,' l.li('«(! woiiIm, Ik; 1»1«'\v ii wnitlifiil cloud from his iiostrilH, '""** Wliihi liis lni''<' brown IihimI ciiiiu! tliiiiKloriii'' down oil Um! t ;ll>ll! Si) Unit iluj ^mk'hIh Jill Htiirtud ; and FiiLlier Ftdiciiin asloiiiid«Ml, Siiddciily |)aMs('(l, witli a piiicli of smid' lialf-way to liis iioHtrilH, r.iit tlx' liiavc lliisil I'cHinncd, and his words wcrn milder and L(ay<'r : - Only l»(!\vai(! of tin; fevcir, my friends, licvvaro of tlio * fevor ! oor. ]?„,. it is ii(,t liko tliat of our cold Acadian (dimat*!, Cureil hy wearing' a s|iidi'r iiiin<,' round ono's neck in (I in a inns liidl! TIkui tlieic were voie(!s licai'd at the door, and foot- steps appi'o.iehiiiLj S()Uii(h-d upon the stairs and the lloor of tiie hrce/y voraiiihi. It was tlie nei_t;lihoriii^ (>r(!o!e,s and small Acadian planters, Kiio Who liad liee-ii sumnioiu'd all to tin; house of IJasil tJH! herdsman. Merry the meeting' was of aiuuent comrades and ncd^dihors : Friend clasped friend in his arms; and tlioy w)io ])(!f()i(5 wc.i'i! as stran,L,'ers, Meetinj^ in exile, hecanie straightway as friends to each other, Drawn ])y tlie <;eiitl(! l)oiid of a common coinitry toLjetlier. . '''I'' l>ut in the nidglihoriiiL,' hall a strain of music, pro- ceeding From the accordant strings of Mi^ delighted, All things forgotten besides, they gave themselves to the maddening ^1 (r1>R J G2 EVANGKLIVR. ii Wliirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayeil to the music, 1020 Dreamlike with beaming eyes and the rush of flutter- ing garments. Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman Sat, conversing together of pa.st and present and future ; While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of (he music 1025 Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irroprossible sadness Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest. Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 1030 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, 1035 Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings. As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees. Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure- less prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery hazo upon it, and fire-flies EVANGELINE. 03 1040 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numl)ors. Over her liead the stars, the thouglits of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, Save wlien a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, As if a hand had ap[)eared and written upon them, " Ui.harsin." 1045 ^,^j y,y i^,)„[ Qf tiie maiden, between the stars and the tire- flies, Wand(!reil alone, and she cried, " Gabriel ! Oh my beloved ! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me 1 Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 1050 ^1, j Ijovv often thine eyes have looked on the wood- lands around me ! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor. Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers ! When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " Loud and sudden and near the note of the whippoor- will sounded '^•'^ Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighborin<' lliickt'ts, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "Patience !" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness ; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded "To- morrow 1 " Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the llowers of the garden 1060 ]>;^|^1, (3(1 rti e i i" shining feet with their tears, and an- nointed liis tresses 'f- Pi ii M m 64 EVANGELINE. With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. "Farewell f " said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold ; "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fast- ing and famine, And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." 10C5 « Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sun- shine, and gladness, bvviftly they follow the flight of him who was speed- ing before them, Blown by the blast of fate like a dead loaf over the desert. 1070 ^fifot that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, Found thoy trace of his course, in lake or forost or ri vor, Nor, after many days, had thoy found him ; but vague and uncertain Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country ; Till, at the little inn of the S[»anis]i town of Adiyes, 1075 WTeary and worn, thoy aliglited, and learned from the garrulous landlord, That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. IV. Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains Lift, through jjorpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. 1080 Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway. Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon. EVANGELINK. 65 Westward the Oregon flows and tlie Walleway and Owyliee. Eastward, willi devious course, among the VVindriver Mountains, Tliron^h the Sweet-water Valley preeii)itate leaps tiie Nchraska ; '*'^"' And t(» the soutii, from Eontaine-qui-bout and the Spanisli sierras, Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert. Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, Lil;e the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibmtions. S[)reading between these streams are the wondrous., beautiful prairies, io!)o IJilloxvy l)ays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sun- shine, Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck ; Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel ; 1095 Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children. Staining the desert with blood; and above their ter- rible war-trails Circles and sails aloft, on jnnions maj(?stic, the vulture, Like tlie implacable soul of a chieftan slaughtered in battle, By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 1100 Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders ; Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift- running rivers ; And tlie grim, taciturn bear, the anciiorite monk of the desert. Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, tn i ■J: '■ ) i 66 EVANGELINE. And over all is the sky, the cleciC r.nd crystalline heaven, 1^05 Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozaik Mo'in tains, Gabriel -.r had entered, with hunters and trappers bcliind hi^o. Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil Followed liis Hying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. ^^^^ Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire Kise in the morning air from the ili^tant plain; but at nightfall, When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morg '.ua 11^^ Showed tiuMu her lakes of liglit, tliat retreated and vanished before them. Once as they sat by their evening lire, there silently entered Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features Wore deep traces of sorrow, anil patience as great as her soirow. She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 1120 From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Ca- inanches. Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois hafi been murdered. Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome Gave they, witli words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them On the bufFalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 1125 2ui when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companion'^ J EVANOELINR. 67 Worn with the lon<:i; day's march and the chase of the deer and the ])ison, Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their -lankets. Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 1130 Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another • Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, 1135 Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her. She in turn related her love and all its disasters. Mate with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mow is ; 1140 Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden. But, when the mornirg came, arose and passed from the wigwam, Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sun- shine. Till she beheld h'm no more, though she followed far into the forest. Then, in those sweet low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, 1145 Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom. That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, Breathed like the evening v/ind, and whispered love to the maiden, 68 EVANGiaiNE. Till she followed his green aiul waving plume through the forest, And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by ker people. ii^<^ Silent with wonder and strange surpri.se, Evangeline listened To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose. Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor 1156 Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. "With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the ^ branches Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible f whispers. Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret Subtle sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, iiw As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. ^^^^ Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the Shawnee Said, as they journeyed along, — "On the western slope of these mountains Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. Much he teaches the people, and tolls them of Mary and Jesus ; EVANGELINE. 69 Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they licar him." ^170 Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " Thither they turned their steeds, and behind a spur of the mountains, Just as the sun went down, they hoard a murmur of voices. And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, i^'^^ Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, Knelt the Bkck Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines. Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 1180 This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the even- ing devotions. ^^^^ But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower. Slowly the reverend man advanced to the .strangers, and bade them Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, 'M m ! I ii» 70 KVANllKhlNK. ''^•^ Ami, with words of kindness, (M)ndu»!t('d thoni into hi n'i^f.vuaj. Thoro u »U'*.*.8 luul skins tlicy roiioscd, and on cak )( VI niaiz»!-i'ai' Feasted, auu .^lako ; i''eir thirst i'lOMi tlie vvatei-j^ourd of the teacher. Soon was their story told ; and the priest with so- kMnnity answered : — "^otsixsnns have risen anil set sinee (Jahriel, seated 11"^ On this mat hy my side, wiioro now tiio nuiiihsn re j)Oses, Told me this same sad tale; then arose ami continned his journiiy !" Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness; l)Ut on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snowflakes Fall into some lono nesi from which the hirds have. departed. 1 00 "t\vi- to the north he has gone," continued the priest; " hut in autumn, When the chase is done, will return again to tlie Mission." Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, "Let mo remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on the morrow, 206 Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions. Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — Days and weeks and months; and the ileitis of maize that were springing Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, 1210 Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, aud forming KVAN» TALES OF A WAYSIDE INK KING KOIJEllT OF SICILY. Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope lTrl)au6 And Vahnond, Emperor of Alleinaine, Apparelled in inagnilicont attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, s On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat And hf^ard the priests chant the IMagnilieat. And as he listened, o'er and o'er again Repeated, like a bur len or refrain, He '.T.ught the words, ^^JJcjtosuit pofentes 10 jj, ,;/:i,/>j e/ eraltarif luuniles ;^' And slowly lifting up his kingly licad lie to a leurned clerk beside him said, "W vt mean these words?" The clerk made an- swer meet, "He has put down the mighty from their seat, 1* And has exalted them of low degree." I ^ . w^^^ TALKS OF A WAVSIDR INN. Thfireat Kini^ llohorfc muttorod scornfully, " 'T is well that such seditious words arc sung Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; For unto priests and people he it ki^wn, 20 Tliere is no power can push nie from my throne !" And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. When he awoke, it was val ready night ; The church was empty, and there was no light, 25 Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, Lighted a little space before some saint. He staited from liis seat and gazed aroui>d, But saw no living thing and heard no sound. He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 30 He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked. And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, And imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds reechoed from the roof and walls As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. 86 At length the sexton, hearing from without The tumult of the knocking and the shout. And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there ?" Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, *o " Open : 't is I, the King ! Art thou afraid ? " The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse !" Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; A man rushed by him at a single stride, ♦6 Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak. Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, But leaped into the blackness of the night. And vanished like a spectre from his sight. Robert of Sicily, }»rother of Pope Urbane ^0 And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnilicent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and l)esprent with mire, With sense of wrong and outrage desperate. Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ; ^^ Rushed through the coiu'tyiird, thrusting in hia rarje 81 ■; V «l H i tt;.' ." l! < m 82 TALES OF A WAYSIOE INN. To right and left each senesclial and page, And hurried up tlie broad and sounding stair, His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall t^ hall he passed with breatiiless speed ; ^ Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, Until at last he reached the bajiquet-rooni, Blazing with light and breathing with perfume. There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his sigiiet-ring, ^■' King Robert's self in features, form, and height, But all transfigured with angelic light ! It was nn Angel ; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled th(; air. An exaltation, piercing the disgui..e, 70 Though noiie the hidden Angel recognize. A moment speechless, motionless, amazed. The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, Who met his look of anger and surprise With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 75 Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?" To which King Robert answered with a sneer, " I am the King, and come to claim my own From an impostor, who usurps my throne !" And r.midenlv, at these audacious words, 80 Up sprang the tiigry guests, and drew their swords j The Angfll answert'^d, with unruffled brow, ■ "Nay, not the Kl.c^, but the King's Jester, thou Henceforth ahait wear the bells and scalloped cape, And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 85 Thou shalt olicv my servants when they call, And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers. They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ; A group of tittering pages ran before, ^ And as they opened wide the folding-door. His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms. And all the vaulted chamber roar and rincf With the mock plaudits of " Long live the King I " 1 I TALES OF A Wx\V«lDK INN. 83 i ^ Next niorniiig, Wiikiuii; with the clay's fh'st l)eam, He said within himself, "It was a dream !" But the straw rustled as he tui'uod his iiead, There were the cap and hells beside his bed, Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, ^^^ Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, And in the corner, a revolting shape, Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. It was no dream ; the world he loved so much Had turned to dust and ashes at his toucli ! '05 Days came and went ; and now returned again To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; Under the Angel's governance benign The happy island danced with corn and wine, And deep within tlie mountain's burning bicast 110 Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. Meanwhile King Hubert yielded to his fate, Sullen and sihnit and disconsolate. Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, With look bewildered and a vacant stare, 11'' Close shaven above tlie ears, as monks are shorn. By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn. His oidy friend the ape, his only food What others left, — he still was unsubdued. And when the Ang(il u\et him on his way, 120 And half in (iurnest, half in jest, would say, St(!rnly, tiiough tenderly, that he might feel The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe l>urst from him in resistless overflow, •-•'• And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling The haughty answer back, " I am, I am the King ! Almost three years were ended ; when there came Ambassadors of great repute and name From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 1-"' Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urljane By letter summoncnl them forthwith to come On Holy Thursday to his city of Home. The Angel with great joy I'eceived his guests, And gave th(;m presents of endjroidered vests, ;':f!l ill '4 «i i. Hi I n ill. i:; i IL 84 ' TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. ^*^ And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, And rings and jewels of the i-jirest kind. Then he departed with them o'er the s(;a Into the lovely land of Itiily, Whose loveliness wms inoi-e resplendent made ^^^ l»y the mere passiiii,' of that cavalcade, With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, Upon a piebald steed, with shand)ling gait, ^*^ His cloak of fox-tails Happing in the wind, The solemn ape demui'cily perch(>d l)e]iind, King Robert I'ode. making huge merriment In all the country towns through which tiu y went. The Pope received them with gi-eat pomp and blare 150 Qf b,>unered ti-um})ets, on Saint Peter's squai-e, Giviiig his benediction and led mien, Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; ^^^ The Emperor, laughing, said, " It is strange sport To keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! " And the poor baffled Jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the popi .ice. In solemn state the Holy Week went by, 170 And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; The presence of the Angel, with its light. Before the sun rose, made the city bright, And witli new fervor filled the hearts of men, • Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. I TALES OF A WAYHIDE INN. 85 17S Evon thn Jnster, on his bod of straw, With haggard eyos tlio nnwoiitiHl splendor saw, He felt witljin a power uiifelt before, And kneeling huinUly on his chanihor floor, He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 180 Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward And now tlie visit ending, and once more Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, Homeward the Angel journ(?yo(l, and again The land was niad(^ resplendent with his train, 1"' Plashing along the towns of Italy Unto Salerno, and from thenc(; by sea. And when once more within Palermo's wall. And, seated on the tlirone in his great hall, |[e heard the Angelas from convent towers, ""^ As if the better world conversed with ours. He beckoned to King Robei't to draw nigher, And with a gesture l)ade the rest retire; And when they were alone, the Angel said, "Art thou the King ! " Then bowing down his head, '"•'' King Robert crossed both hands upon his bn^ast. And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best ! My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence. And in some cloister's school of penitence, Ai'ross those stones, that pave the way to heaven, - " Wall- barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven !" Tlie Angel smiled, and from his radiant face A holy light illumined all the place, And through tlu' opiMi window, loud and clear. They heii"d the monks chant in the chapel near, Altove the stir and tunmlt of the street : " Jfe has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree ! " And through the chant a second melody liose like the throbbing of a single string : 210 '* I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! " :>() m ril ■' iff 1:11 '■-i. ^'^ King RoI)ert, who was standing near the throne, Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 86 TALER OF A WAYHIDK INN. i i But all apparelled us in days of old, With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; ^if" And when his courtiers came, they found him there Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. THE BIRDS OF KTLLINGWORTH. It was the season when throuLjh all the land The merle and mavis luiild, and building' sing Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, Whom Saxon CaKlmon calls tlie P)litho-heart King ^ Wlien on the boughs the piirph; buds (ixpaiul, The banners of the vanguard of the S[)ring, And rivulets, rejoicing, rush fiud leap. And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 10 Filled all the l)lossoming oi'chards with their glee; The sparrows chir[)('d as if they still were pioud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ; And hungi'v crows, assembled in a crowd. Clamored their piteous prayer inc(!ssantly, !•'' Knowing who heai-s the raven's cry, and said : "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread !" Across the Sound the birds of passage snilod. Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 20 The village with the cheers of all their fleet; Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed Like foreign sailors, landed in the street Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boya. 25 Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the eaj-th, Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, TALES OP A WAYSIDE INN. 87 That minglod with tho universal mirth, 3" Cassaiulra-like, prognosticating woe ; Thoy shook their licads, and doomed witli dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town-meeting was convened straightway To set a price upon tho guilty heads '^■' Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, Levied black-mail upon the garden-beds And cornfields, and beheld without disniay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shrrda ; The skeleton that w aited at tluMr feast, ■*" Whereby their sinful pleasure w.is increased. The!i from his house, a temple painted white, With fluted columns, and a roof of red, Tlu! S(juire came forth, august and splendid sight ! Slowly descending, with majestic ti-ead, *■' Tiiree flights of st{^j)s, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who said, " A town that l)OnKts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society ! " The Parson, too, aj^piwred, a man austere, ^® The instinct of wliose: nature was to kill ; The wrath of (Jod he pjcadied from year to year, And read with fervor, Edwards on the Will ; His favoi-ite pastim(> was to slay the deer In Hummer on soin(> Adirondnc hill ; ^•^ E'en now, while waruing down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, ^ Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almii'a in the uppei- class. Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as l)rend. ®^' And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow ; ^ I ! ; ! '.'■•fl m liP ■■! r.i L ■^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) k // // ^ A. /a # i< 4i 1.0 ^1^ 1^ I.I 1.8 IL25 ill 1.4 i.6 V] <^ /. ^h ^ ^ "^ ,>^ ^l^J" ^' V ^^ ^^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 \ ^^ N> % .V ^ o\ riy » o 4ip 88 TALES OF A WAYSIDI5 INN, A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; * His form was poiubnous, and liis step was slow ; There never was so wise a man before ; 70 He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you so !" And to perpetuate liis great renown There was a street named after him in town. These came together in the new town-hall, With sundry farmers from the region round, 7-'' The Squire presided, dignified and tall. His air impressive and his reasoning sound. Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small ; Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, But enemies enough, who every one ^^ Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong. And, trembling like a steed before the start, Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng ; Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down : .< 80 " Plato, arti'Mpating the Reviewers, 80 From his Republic banished without pity The Poets. In this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee, The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 86 The birds who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David d^d for Saul. ** The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood ; The oriole in the elm ; the noisy j;iy, 100 Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song ; ^ : i; TALES OP A WAYSIDE INN. 89 105 "You slay them all ! And wherefore? For the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! ii<^ Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. *• Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught 11^ The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought ? ^ Whose household words are s^ ngs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 120 ^j.g half-way houses on the road to heaven ! "Think, every morning when the sun peeps through Tiie dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew - Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 126 And when you think of this, remember too 'T is always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 'i.f ill \n n } 1 m m 1 1 i < "Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! ISO Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams * As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams 135 Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? "What ! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay. And hear the locust and the grasshopper !*<> Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, "m X ii , 90 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? 145 "You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know, They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe. And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 1^0 Renders good service as your man at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. "How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to tiie weak, and reverence 155 por Life, which, in its weakness or excess, Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less The self-same light, although averted hence. When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, .60 You contradict the very things I teach t " With this he closed ; and through the audience went A muriimr, like the rustle of dead leaves ; The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; 165 jVXen have no faith in fine-spun sentiment Who put their trust in bullocks and in l)eeves. The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows, A bounty offered for the heads of crows. There was another audience out of re^ch, 170 Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, But in the papers read his little speech. And crowned his modest temples with applause ; They made him conscious, each one more than each. He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 175 Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, O fair Almira at the Academy ! And so the dreadful massacre began ; O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests. The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 180 Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, TALES OP A WAYSIDE INN. 91 Or wounded crept away from sight of man, While the young died of famine in their nests; A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! '^•'' The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ; The days were like hot coals ; the very ground Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields and garden beds ^•^0 Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found No foe to check their march, till they had made The land a desert without leaf or shade. Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town. Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly, •95 Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down The canker-worms upon the passers-by. Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, Who shook them off with just a little cry ; They were the terror of each favorite walk, 200 The endless theme of all the village talk. The farmers grew impatient, but a few Confessed their error, and would not complain, For after all, the best thing one can do When it is raining, is to let it rain. 205 Then tht^y repealed the law, although they knew It would not call the dead to life again ; As school-boys, finding their mistake too late. Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. I ;■■:>■ 210 That year in Killingworth the Autumn came Without the light of his majestic look. The wonder of the falling tongues of flame. The illumined pages of his Doom's Day book. A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame. And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, ?15 While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, Lamenting the dead children of the air ! But the next spring a stranger sight was seen, A sight that never yet by bard was sung. 92 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. As great a wonder as it would have been *** If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! A wagon, overarched with evergreen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, All full of singing-birds, came down the street, Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 226 From all the country round these birds were brought, By order of the town, with anxious quest, And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought In woods and fields the places they loved best, Singing loud canticles, which many thought Were satires to the authorities addressed. While others, listening in green lanes, averred Such lovely music never had been heard ! But blither still and louder carolled they Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know *^ It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, . And everywhere, around, above, below, When the Preceptor bore his bride away, Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, And a new heaven bent over a new earth 2*® Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 230 THE BELL OF ATRL At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, ^ And then sat down to rest as if to say, " I climb no farther upward, come what may." — The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame. So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place, ^0 Beneath a roof, projecting some small space By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, TALKS OP A WAYSIDE INN. 93 And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made prochimation, that wlienever wrong ^•^ Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John. How swift the happy days in Atri sped, 20 What wrongs were righted need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, 26 Till one who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. r>y chance it happened that in Atri dwelt 80 A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who lo^'ed his hounds and horses, and nil sports And prodigalities of camps and courts : — *fi Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold. He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Kented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, *<* To starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair. Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. At length he said : " What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, *^ Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear 1 Let him go feed upon the public ways ; I want him only for the holidays." So the old steed was turned into the heat w Of the long, lonely, silent, shadel-^'s street ; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn. Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. m 94 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the sun .ner time, •* With bolted doors nnd wiiulow-slmtters closed. The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarm of the accusing bell ! The Syndic started from his deep repose, *o Turned on his couch, and listened, and tlion rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-jilace. Where the great bell upon its croi^s-beam swung, Reiterating with persistent ton^'ue, 66 In half-articulate jargon, the o'd song : " Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong ! " But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade He saw, or thought he saw, bene ith its sluule. No shape of human form of won an burn, '^^ But a poor steed dejected und forlorn. Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. "Domeneddio ! " cried the Syndic straiglit, " This is the Knight of Atri's steed ot state 1 He calls for justice, being sore distressed, ^^ And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast 80 In five-and-twenty different ways at least. With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; 85 Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, Muin;aining, in an angry undertone. That he should do what pleased liini with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read ^ The proclamation of the King ; then said : " Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; 'W«s^. HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 9r> Fcamc is the frMcjrunco of her jic decdf?, Of riowers of chivalry and not of wee 's ! ^^ These are familiar proverhs ; but I feav They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honor, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute ? He wlio serves well and speaks not, merits more '<^ Tiian they who clamor loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, hencefortli you shall take hoed To comfort his old ago and to provide Shelter in stall, and food and field beside." ^06 The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard tiud approved, and laughed in gloe, And cried aloud : " Right well it pleaseth me ! Church bells at best but ring us to 'he door ^^^ But go not in to mass ; my bell doth more : It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws: And this shiu; make in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time." ■^ ••• ► HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 'Aanatritf, TpiAAiffTo?. T HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls ! 5 I felt her presence, by its spell of might. Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm jnajestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. nl ' li Ji! 96 A PSALM OF LIFB. I hoard the sounds of sorrow and delight, *o The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chamhers of the Night, Like some old poet's rliymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; "^^ The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — From tho^e deep cisterns flows. holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear What man has horno before I Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. 20 Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight. The welcome, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night ! ■'4—•-^^' A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OP THE ^OUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream ! " For the soul is dead that slumbers, ♦ And things are not what they seem. 6 Life is real 1 Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," "Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, *® Is our destined end or way ; But to act that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. THE DAY 18 DONE. 97 to Art is lon^, and Time is floeting, And our licarts Hion^'h stout and brave, 1* Still, like muHlcd drums, aro beating Funeral niarebos to tlie grave. In the world's ])road iield of battle, In the bivouac of Life, J>e not like dumb, driven cattle 1 Bu a hero in the strife I Trust no Future, hovve'er pleasant I Let the dead Past bury its dead I Act — act in the living Present ! Heart within and God o'erhead. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of tinje j Footprints, that perhaps another. Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; 88 Still achieving, still pursuing. Learn to labor and to wait. 25 30 -4-^*-^- THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in its flight. * I see the lights of the village Gleam througli the rain and the mist, 98 TUB DAY 18 DONB. XO And a feeling of sadness comes o'er m« That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, Tiiat is not akin to i>aiM, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles tlio rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, , ^^ That shall soothe this restless feeling, And biiiiish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters. Not from the bards sublime. Whose distant footsteps echo 20 Through tlie corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor ; And to-night I long for rest. 28 111 jid from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer. Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who, through long days of labor. And nights In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives. mi X ■ 100 THE BUILDERS. 40 35 Thinking that our rehiomhrance, though unspoken, May reach her where slie lives. Not as a child sliall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She v/ill not bo a child ; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. *8 And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, — We will be patietit, and assuage the feeling ^ We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. ^•••^ THE BUILDERS. ill! All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time : Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. fi Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, 10 Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. Truly shape and fashion these ; Leave no yawning gaps between ; 1** Think not, because no man sees, Sucli things will remain unseen. In the ekler days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part ; For the Gods see everywhere. Lei us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen ; Make the house, where Gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean. 26 Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. 101 20 80 Build to-day, then, strong and sure With a firm and ample base ; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets where the eye 86 Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky. I ■^•••p- THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. St. Augustine ! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame 1 * All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, I ■' ( 102 ^ 10 THE LADDKIl OP ST. AUGUSTINE. Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by whicli we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less ; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions' of excess ; The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; IS The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds. That have their root in thoughts of ill ; Whatever hinders or impedes *® The action of the nobler will ; — All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. 25 We have not wings, we cannot soar ; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. TJje mighty pyramids of stone •0 That wedge-like cleave the desert airs. When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, '5 Are crossed by pathways that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, *o Were toiling upward in the night Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, THE WARDEN OP THE CINQUE PORTS. We may discern — unseen before — A path to higher destinies. *5 Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last, To sometliing nobler we attain. 103 ii k -♦♦•♦-»- THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. ■'' It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships ; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe and Dover, 10 Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over. When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant Hons, Their cannon, through the night, w Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel ; Each answering each, with morning salutations, 20 Tliat all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, 59BWW" lili 104 THE FIFTIETH BIIITHDAY OF AGASSIZ. As if to summon from liis sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 26 Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, Awaken with its call! so No more, surveying with an eye impartial The lont,' line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post ! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, 36 Dreaded of men, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall had scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper. The dark and silent room. And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, *® The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar ; Ah! what a blow ! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore. ^ Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead ; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. ■4 «•>► THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. May 28, 1857. It was fifty years ago. In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. THE VlfiLAOR CLACKSMITH. 105 10 * An-- THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands. The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; <;.. Jrf-^- 106 THE VILLAaE BLACKSMITH. * And tlie niuscies of his brawny arms Are stronft as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long. His face is like the tan ; Ills brow is \vet with honest sweat, He earns whatc'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. 10 Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his beUows blow; 16 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow. Like a sexton ringing tlie village bell, When the evening sun is low. 20 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. 26 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, 80 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 ; 85 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. ■6,— rejoicing,- -sorrowmg. 40 Toiling, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begun, Each evening sees it close ! Something attempted, something done. Has earned a night's repose. THE AUSHNAL AT SPRINGFIELD, 107 10 Tlianks, thanks to thee, my wnvtliy fiieiul, For the lesson thou hast tau^'hl ! *^ TIjus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. ^*»*» THE AKSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceilinji, Lil;e a huge organ rise the burnished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and drear}', When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful 8ym[)honies. I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which through the ages that have gone Ijufore us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and Harness rings the Saxon hammer. Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, *. And loud, amid the universal clamour, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din. And Aztec priests upon their teocallis ^ Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; The tumult of each sacked and burning village, The shout that every prayer for mercy di owns ; The soldier's revels in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; *■ ! 11 M 108 tHE BRIDOR. II 80 ^ The bursting shell, the gateway vvrenohol asunder, The rattling iniisketrv, the clashing blade ; And ever and anon, in toies of thunder, The diapason of the cannojiade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, ^^ Given to redeem the human mind from error. There were no need for arsenals nor forts : The warrior's name would be a name abhorred I And every nation, tiiat should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 40 Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain I Down the dark future, through long f enerations. The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Chri^jt say, "Peace !" *^ Peace I and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies I But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. -♦^•♦>- THE BRIDGE. I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the 1 our, And the moon rose o'er the city. Behind the dark .church-tower. ** I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, THE BRIDGE. 109 Like a r,'ol(leu goblet falling And sinkiiig into the sea. An>; fai in tho hazy distance 1^ Of that lovely night in .Inno, Th(^ blaze of the tlaniing fuiiiaco (ileamed redder than the ni(jon. Among the long black rafters, The Witvoring shadows lay, I'j And the current that came from tin; ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away ; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, 2 of them — Luigi Monti, -'the young Sicilian," and I)r. Parsons, "the Poet" — were intimate friends of Longfellow, and were, moreover, actually frequent visitors at the Sudbury Inn. A second series of the Tales appeared in 1872. The Bell of Atri \s the first poem of this series. In 1873, in the volume entitled -4,/i!er/nrtrc(l, Some breath of its volcanic air Was (flowing in his heart and brain, And, beinf; rebellious to his liuge, After Palermo's fatal siege. Across the western seaa he lied, In (food Kinjjf Bomba's happy reign. His face was like a summer night. All flooded with a dusky light ; His hands were small ; his teeth shone whItA As sea shells, when he smiled or spoke ; His sinews supple and strong as oak ; Clean shaven was he as a priest, Who at the mass on Sunday sings, Save that U{M)n his upper lip His beard, a good palm's length at least, Level and pointed at the tip, Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. The poets read he o'er and o'er, And most of all the Immortal Four Of Italy ; and next to those, The story-telling bard of prose. Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales Of the Decameron, that make Fiesole's green bills and vales Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. Much too of music was his thought ; The melodies and measures fraught With sunshine and the open air, Of vineyard i >d the singing sea Of his belovct 'Mly; And much it pU nod him to peruse The songs of the Sicilian muse, — Bucolic songs by Meli 8Ut)g, In the familiar peasant tongue. That made men say, 'Behold ! once more The pitying gods to earth restore Theocritus of Syracuse 1 ' " Of the Pof't, from whose lips comes the graceful humor of Birds of Killingworth," Longfellow gives this sketch : — " A Poet, too, was there, whose verse Was tender, musical, and terse ; The inspiration, the delight, Tlie gleam, the glory, the swift flight Of thou^'ht so sudden, that they seem The revelations of a dream. All these were his ; but with them came No envy of another's fame; He did not ttiid his sleep less sweet For music in some neighboring street, Nor rustling bear in every lireeze Tlie laurels of Miltiades. Honour and blessings on his head While living, good report when dead. Who, not too eager for renown, Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown I" Th< m 124 111 NOTES ON TALES OP A WAYSIDE INN. KING ROBERT OF SICILY. A link between the several tales is made by tlio introduction of Inter- ludea. The closing lines of bhe Interlude preceding the Sicilian's tale are: — " At last, but in a voice aubdiied, Not to disturb tlicir dreamy mood, Said tho Sicilian, " While you spoke, Tellinjf your legend marvellous. Suddenly in my mrmory wolto The thought of one, now gone from U8,— An old Abate, meek and mild, My friend and teacher, when a child, Who sometimes in those days of old The legend of an Angel told. Which ran, if I remember, thus." The story is one widely known among different peoples. It appears in Gesta Romanorum as the story of Jovinian, and seems to have been a favorite tale in Hindoo, German, French, and Old English popular legend. The story, as told by lieigh Hunt in his Jar of Honey from ML Hyhla, seems to have been the one to which Longfellow had direct recourse. AUemaine. — Germany. Cf. Alfemnrfne, the French name for Ger- many. The Germans living on the borders of the Rhine were formerly called Alemanni by their Gallic neighbors. St. John's Eve. — Midsummer Eve, a great and wide-spread festival in Europe during heathen times. Changed in name, but retaining esscn • iy the same rites, it was adopted by the Church, and became one of the most joyous festivals of Christendom during the Middle Ages. The Magnificat. — The song of rejoicing by the Virgin on receiving a visit of Elizabeth. See Luke, i. The Latin words of the song at the beginning of the Roman Catholic service are: — Magnificat anlma mea Dominum. The King's Jester. — From very ancient times it was customary to have in a court, or royal household, an attendant, a sort of privileged buffoon, whose office was to while away the time of the great by his jests and witty sayings. In the Middle Ages the practice became very common. Half-witted persons were sometimes employed for this pur- pose by noblemen. The symbols of the Court Fool were : — the shaven head, the fool's cap of gay colors with asses' ears und cock's comb, the fool's sceptre, the bells attached to the cap or to other parts of the dress, and a large collar. The custom was entirely abolished towards the beginning of the 18th century. Had turned to dust and ashes. — An allusion to the apples of Sodom, the apples of the shores of the Dead Sea, described by ancient M'riters as beautiful to the eye, but tilling the mouth with bitter ashes if tasted. The apple of Sodom is, in reality, a kind of gall-nut growing on dwarf- oaks. The old Satumian reign. — Saturn, the oldest of the deities, de- throned by his son Jupiter, was believed to have fled to Italy, and to have established in his rule there the Golden Age, so called because of NOTES ON TALKH OP A WAYSIDE INN, 125 of Inter- ian's tale t appears ,\Q been a li popular from Ml. lad direct B for Ger- e formerly id festival i retaining [id became 16 Middle eceiving a ong at the tnlina mea lomary to privileged at by his came very this pur- he shaven comb, the uts of the d towards of Sodom, ent writers !S if tasted, on dwarf- ieities, d."- aly, and to because of the mildness and wisdom of his govornmont and the happiness of his subjects. Enceladus. — One of the giants of mythical fame, who conspired against Jupiter. He wtm struck with Jupiter's tliunders and inipiisonud under Mount Etna. According to the poets the flanies of Etna pro- ceeded from the breath of K. , and as often as ho turned his weary side the whole island of Sicily felt the motion. In Longfellow's poem Enceladus, the giant is used as a symbol of hhunbering Italy about to ri»e in her strength. I'he following are the opening stanzas of the poem : — " Umler Mount Etna ho lies, It is slinuhcr, it is not death ; For he stru^grles at tinio:i to arise, And above him the hirid skies Are hot with his flery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his h(!acl ; But the groans of i)i.s wilU unrest, Thou^fh smothered and half-suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead." Holy Thursday. — Holy Week is the name given to the week im- mediately preceding Easter, and especially consecrated to the com- memoration of the Passion of our Redeemer. Some of the church services of the week are specially devoted to the commemoration of particular scenes in the Passion of our Lord, as Palm Suntlay and Holy Thursday, tlio latter specially designed as a commemoration of the Last Supper and of the institution of the Eucharist. , THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. Killingworth, the name of a town in Connecticut, is a corrupted form of the I']nglish Kenitworth, from which the former place was originally named. A writer relates, from personal recollection, the following incident which took place in the town sixty or seventy years ago, and may have furnished the suggestion on which Longfellow's story was based : — '* The men of the northern part of the town did yearly in the spring choose two leaders, and then the two sides were formed ; the side that got beaten should pay the bills. Their special game was the hawk, the owl, the crow, tlie blackbird, and any other bird supposed to be mischievous to the corn. Some years each side would bring them in by the bushel. This was followed up for only a few yeari, for the birds began to grow scarce." Longfellow's story, apart from this slight suggestion, is his own invention, the only one of the tales which can be so styled. Csedmon (pronounced Keedmon). — The earliest English poet, in whose "Metrical I^araphrase " of the Scriptures the following lines occur, treating of Aaam and Eve : — " Then blessed the blithe-lieart King, the Lord of all things, of manliind the first two, father and mother, female and male.' nr I ' 120 NOTES ON TALKS OF A WAYSIHK INN. In Holy Writ— Sec Matthow, x. 2n-r?l. Like foreign sailors, otc. — Tho poet i> ovidontly thinking of early observationB in Portlaiul. Cassandra-like. — Cassantlra was tho fairest daughter of Piiam, king of ancient Troy. She was said to have learned tho secrets of prophecy from Apollo, who was charmed by her beauty. Provoked by her cold- ness, however, he laid upon her the curse that her prophecies, though true, should not be believed, and thus it was that she prophesied in vain the treachery of tho Greeks and the destruction of Troy. The skeleton, etc. — The ancient Egyptians, according to Herodotus, were accustomed to display at their toasts the carved image of a mummy, to remind tho guests of the inevita1)lc end awaitin .; each one of them. Plutarch, with his usual seriousness, looked upon this as an exhortation to sobriety, but modern commentators generally un'U 128 NOTifiS ON HYMN TO THE NIOxx*. Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, And said : 'Alas for human greed, That with cold hand and stony eye , Thus turns an old friend out to die, Or ht'H his food froni gate to gate ! This brings a tale into my mind. Which, if you are not disinclined To listen, I will now relate.' All gave assent ; all wished to liuar, Not without man}' a jest and jeer. The story of a spavined steed ; And even the Student with the rest Put in his pleasant little jest Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus Is but a horse that with all speed Bears poets to the hospital ; While the Sicilian, self-possessed. After a moment's interval Began his simple story thus." The source of this story is either Gualteriizzi's Cevto Novelle Anticki or the Gesta liomanorum, where it appears, in sliglitly varied form, under tlie title of The Belt of Justice. The Ivindiy iut:«rest in dumb animals which this poein shows Lonj^fellow to have felt, is evidenced likewise by others of his works. Atri— (ii'tree). — A town in southern Italy, on a steep mountain, five miles from„ the Adriatic. Abruzzo. — A-broot'so. Re Giovanni — (ra jO-viin'nee). — The Italian for King John. Syndic. — Chief magistrate. Briony — (also bry'ony). — A wild, climbing plant. Votive garland. — A tribute dedicated in fulfilment of a vow, or in commemoration of some prayer which accompanied the vow. Falcons. — The bird used in hawking; that is, in Hying hawks to catch other binls. Falconry, originating in Asia, was the favorite amusement with the nobility of Europe during the Middle Ages and until the end of the seventeenth century. In this diversion the kings and nobles passed most of their time, scarcely stirring out of doors without a falcon in hand. It was looked upon as the criterion of nobility. The introduction of the art of shooting birds on the wing has caused the sport of hawking to die out. The head-covering worn in order to keep the bird in the dark was called a 'hood.' Domeneddio — (domen-ed-dee-o). — This is a common Italian oath. HYMN TO THE NIGHT. The poet tells us that he composed this hymn in the summer of 1 839 while sitting at his chamber window on one of the balmiest nights of the year. "I endeavored," he tells us, "to reproduce the impression of the hour and scene." NOTES ON A PSALM OF LIFB. 129 The Greek motto is translated in the penultimate line of the poem, — "The welcome, the thrice-prayed for." The two words are found in Homer's Iliad, viii. 488. Orestes-like.— Orestes was the son of Agamemnon and Clytaimnestra. The sufferings that he had to endure from the Furies for having slain his mother became a freciuent subject for representation with the tragic poets. A PSALM OP LIFE. vow, or in This poem was written on a bright summer morning, — July 26th, 1888, — in Cambridge, as the poet sat between two windows, at a small table, in the corner of his chamber. Longfellow says of this poem: " I kept it some time in manuscript, unwilling to show it to anyone, it being a voice from my inmost heart at a time when I was rallying from depression." Before it was published in the Knickerbocker Magazine, October, 1838, it was read by the poet to his college class at the close of a lecture on Goethe. The title, — " A Psalm of Life," — now used exclusively for this poem, was originally a generic one, being applied also to "The Light of Stars" and "Footsteps of Angels." The "psalmist" is the poet himself, who is struggling to recover from depression by a stirring appeal to himself. When printed in the Knickerbocker, the poem bore as a motto the lines from Crashaw : — " Life that shall send A challetij^e to its end, And when it comes say, Welcome, friend." Dust thou art. — See Genesis, iii. 19. Art is long. — "Life is short and art long" is an aphorism from Hippocrates. Dead Past bury its dead.— See Luke, ix. 60. B dark was THE DAY IS DONE. This is the first of the "Songs." As a song it is widely popular in spite of the commonplace music written for it by Balfe. This poem was written in the autumn of 1844 as a proem to The Waif, a small volume published by Longfellow at Christmas of that year. RESIGNATION. This is the first of the poems in the group entitled, "By the Fire- side." It was written in the autumn of 1848, after the death of th^ poet's little daughter Fanny. In his diary, under the date of Nov. rith, he says: — "I feel very sad today. I miss very much my dear 130 NOTES ON THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. little Fanny. An inappeasable longing to see her comes over me at times, which I can hardly control." Rachel, etc. — See Jeremiah, xxxi. 15 ; also Matthew, ii. 18. These severe afflictions. — See Job, v. 6, THE BUILDERS. This is the second of the poein8 in the group "By the Fireside." was finished on May 9, 1846. It THE LADDER OP ST. AUGUSTINE. This poem belongs to the year 1850. Saint Augustine — The last syllable bears the accent, and is sounded teen. Of our vices, etc. — The words of St. Augustine are, " De vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus." — Sermon Hi. De Ascennione. Tread beneath our feet, etc — Compare Tennyson's lines, In Memo- riam, i. : — •' I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping stones Of their dead selves to higher things." The right of eminent domain. — "This was the technical phrase describing the supreme authority of the feudal lord of tlie manor and his right to the first fruits of all kinds." THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. Th.^a poeni was written in October, 1852. The Warden, who was the Duke of Wellington, had died Sept. 13. The poem was published in the first number of Putnarn's Magazine, January, 1853. In this connection should be read Tennyson's famous Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, written in the very same year. The Cinque Ports are the five maritime ports of England lying opposite to the coast of France — Sandwich, Dover, Hythe, Romney, and Hastings. William the Conqueror, in order that he might wield the resources of the seaports with greater vigour, placed them under a warden or guardian. The warden, whose office corresponded to that of the ancient count of the Saxon coast, exercised jurisdiction, civil, mili- tary, and naval, uniting in his single person the functions of sherifl, lord-lieutenant, and admiral. NOTES ON THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 131 THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. This poem was read by Longfellow at a dinner, at which he presided, given to Agassiz on the occasion of his 50th birthday. Louis John Rudolph Agassiz, the great naturalist, was born in Switzerland, May 28th, 1807. He came to North America in 1846 as professor in Harvard College. "When Agassiz came to Cambridge he found Longfellow in the height of his activity and usefulness. A warm friendship sprang up between them. They were attracted by similar tastes and by common cosmopolitan culture. There was in the Swiss- Frenchioan a breezier manner and more effervescence of humor, — in the American more attention to the minor amenities and social forms ; but they agreed heartily, and they loved each other like David and Jona- than. A week rarely passed in which they did not meet." "He was a patient student of details. His power over men came from his large and genial nature. His was a sunny intellect, displayed in the most sunny of countenances, and by the most fascinating talk. There was no nimbus of reserve around his clear soul. There was so much magnetism in his nature, so much power under his charming simplicity of manner, that he affected the Faculty as well as the stu- dents, and the people as well as the savantn." Agassiz died at Cambridge on December 14th, 1873. The attention of the student is called to the two sonnets of Longfellow on a subsequent page,— "Tlie Noble Three" and "The Death of Agassiz." Pays de Vaud. — The birthplace of Agassiz was Orbe, in the Canton de Vaud. Kanz des Vaches. — This was a melody played by the Swiss moun- taineers on the Alphoru when they were leading the cows to or from pasture. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Li a letter to his father, Oct. 25, 1840, the poet wi-ites : — " My pen has not been very prolific of late ; only a little poetry has trickled from it. Thei-e will be a kind of ballad on a blacksmith in the next Knicker- bocker (November, 1840), which ytm may consider, if you please, as a song in praise of your ancestor at Newbury (the first Stephen Long- fellow)." "The suggestion of the poem came from the smithy which the poet passed daily, and which stood beneath a horse-chestnut tree not far from his house in Cambridge. The tree was removed in 1876 against the protests of Longfellow and others, on the ground that it imperilled drivers of heavy loads who passed under it." Catch he sparks (line 23). — In all the earlier editions "catch" was •♦watch." ? II THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. On his wedding journey in the summer of 1843, Longfellow passed through Springfield, Massachusetts, and visited the United States 132 NOTES ON THE BllIDGE. arsenal there, in company with Charles Sumner, who had just delivered his great oration in Boston on "The True Grandeur of Nations," in which he inveighed against the wickedness of war. While passing through the arsenal at Springfield, Sumner remarked that the money ex- pended on the weapons of war would have been much better spent upon a great library. Mrs. Longfellow startled her husband by remarking that the shining gun-barrels which covered the walls from floor to ceiling looked like an organ, and suggested what mournful music Death would bring from them. " We grew quite warlike against war," she afterwards wrote, "and I urged Henry to write a peace poem." The poem was written a few months later, and published in Orahani's Magazine, April, 1844. Miserere. — (1) The name given to the 51st Psalm, which begins in the Latin vuigate with Miserere met, Domiue. (2) A piece of nmsic composed to this psalm. The solemn strain of the second stanza was full of prophecy. T hear even now, etc. — These five stanzas enumerate all the noises that accompany tiie preparations for war, or that make up the din of battle, or that follow martial engagements. The Florentine. — In the thirteenth and three following centuries Florence was involved in many wars and dissensions. For about 100 years following 1215 the city was distracted by the deeds of bloodshed and violence of the two rival factions, Guelphs and Ghibellines. Other internecine conflicts followed in quick succession till the name and form of the Florentine republic perished in the sixteenth century. Aztec priests. — The Aztecs were the dominant tribe in Mexico at the time of the arrival of the Spaniards. Human beings by the thou- sand were annually immolated to their gods. To supply victims for these sacrifices war was made on neighboring states. Tlie victims were borne in triumphal processions and to the sound of music to the summit of the great temples, where the priests, in sight of assembled crowds, opened the breasts of the wretched creatures and tore out their bleeding hearts. In 1519, when Cortez arrived among them, the Aztec throne was ()ccupied by Montezuma. Teocallis. — The teocalli (lit. God's house) was the name of the Mexi- can temple. THE BRIDGE. This poem was finished October 9th, 1845, and at first localized as the bridge over the Charles, the river which separates Cambridge from Boston. PROM MY ARM-CHAIR. Contributions for the purchase of this chair came from some seven hundred children of the public schools. The scheme was planned and carried out by Longfellow's friends and neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. E. N. Horsford. The poet wrote this poem on the day of the presentation. NOTES ON AUF WEI I) E US EH EN. 133 )f the Mexi- He was accustomed to give a copy to each chiUl who visited him and eat in the chair. The chair, on a brass plate beneath the cushion, bears the following inscription: — TO THE AUTHOR of TlIK ViLIiAQB BliACKSMITH, This chair, made from the wood of the spreading chestnut-tree is ui'iisented as An expression of grtifeTul regard and veneration by The children of Cambridjjfe, Who with their friends Join in best wishes and conjrratulations on This anniversary, February 27th, 1879. The design of the chair is a«]niira])le, the calor is of a jet black, and the upholstering is in green leather. The back of the chair is carved to represent horse-chestnut leaves and blossoms, and the same style of decoration appears at other points. Around the seat, in raised German text, are the following lines : — " And cliildren coininjj home from school Loolv in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burninp^ sparks that fly Lilve chaff from a threshing-floor." An eye-witness thus describes the cutting down of the old chestnut- tree, from whose destruction sprang the arm-chair which the children of Cambridge presented to Longfellow : "Early in the morning the chop- pers were at it. Like burning sparks from the anvil the chips flew in every direction, and soon a crash was heard ; and the cry went up, ' The old chestnut is down ! ' The word ran from lip to lip ; and a crowd was quickly collected, all rushing out from house and shop just as they were, without coat or hat, and bearing off some fragments as a sotwenir. Tliey looked like ants bearing a burden bigger than them- selves. But some city officer interfered, and the work of plunder ceased." AUP WEIDERSEHBN. In April, 1881, Longfellow writes thus in his diary ;- and distracted week. Fields died on Sunday, the 24th. on Tuesday. Two intimate friends in one written April 30th, 1881. -"A sorrowful Palfrey died week ! " The poem waa W I Arrp]NDTCES. A, THE METRE OF EVANGELINE. '* The selection of liexameter lines for ' Evangeline' was, of course, ii bold experiment, — one that was being tried almost in the same year by Arthur Clough. The great precedeiit Longfellow had in his niind wlien he resolved to try hexameters was (iloetlie's 'Hermann and Dorothea': and this was enougli to justify liis attempt to compromise between the exactions of clas^sic scansion and the rhythmical license of English metres. His success was as wonderful as the attempt was bold. ]iy employing a style of metre that carries the ear back to times in tiie world's history wlien grand simplicities were sung, tlie poet naturally was able to enhance the epic qualities of iiis work, and remove Acadia and its people to the necessary extent from toucli with a part of the world in which human history's developments were raw and unat- tractive. Anlete the story. The incident Mr. Hawthorne's friend gave me, and my visit to the poor-house in I Siladelphia gave me the ground-work of the poem." D. GERMAN INFLUENC?:. " Mr. Longfellow's profound knowledge of (jeiinan literature has given a veiy perceptible tincture to his poetical style. It bears the romantic impress, as distinguished from the classical, though at the same time it is marked by a classical severity of taste. Nothing can exceed the ej^quiaite finish of some of his smaller pieces, while they also abound in that richness of expression and imagery which tlie romantic muse is supposed to claim as her nu re especial attribute. » * * * * * * * He is the most frequently read of foreign verse-writers in Germ>^ny, for his lines are brinnning with the simplicity and senti- ment tiiat the Germans have learned to love in their own poets." — Kennedy. "When English and American scholars first discovered the treasures of German poetfy, there was an excitement like that which led the rush to the new continent of Columbus. We know how Carlyle was en- thralled by his German masters ; how Coleridge, both as poet and table-talker, exhibited himself steeped in German thought and tradition; how Hawthorne's conceptions were thought to be tinged with the mysticism of Fouqu6, and the subtility of Tieck ; how Emerson got his first awakenhig from the same influences ; and, later, how the whole Transcendental School, serenely imconscious of imitation, were talking German philosophy at second hand. Longfellow, among Americans, appears to have been among tiie first to acknowledge the influence of those poets who are nearest us in blood, and whose tastes, feelings, and traditions we measurably share. * Voices cf the Night,' without being in any sense an imitation, could not have been written l.y any but a German scholar, anrl one thoroughly in sympathy with the tender and spiritual feeling of the poets wlio succeeded Goethe."— Underioood. E. MODERN POETRY. " In modern poefery we see that the best efTects are produced in efforts of moderate length. A poem is an enjoyment for a sitting. The exalted feeling which it is the work of poetry to excite is necessarily transient. The movement of feeliog is swift, and at the climax the ecstasy dies. If we look for the masterpieces of modern poets, we find them invariably short. Even naiTative poems are strongly condensed, and we find that 'Evangeline,' for instance, is as long as the taste of our day allows. ill 138 ArrKNDlORS. I " The principal quality, however, in modern poetry is the universal recognition of high ideals in life, even among the hunihlest,— in the doctrines of equality and br(»tlierhood,— in the cultivation of tolerance and charity, —in short, in the inculcation of the true 'gospel,' or good news, of 'peace on earth and good will towards men.' In this way the scope of poetry has been enlarged, and its tone elevated immiiasurably." — Underivood. P. THE ACADTANS. *'Abb6 Raynal, who never saw the Acadians, has made an idctal picture of them, since copied and improved in prose and verse, till Acadia has become Arcadia. The plain realities of their tondition anvl fate are touching enough to need no exaggeration. They were a simple and very ignorant peasantry, industrious and frugal till evil days came to discourage them ; living aloof from the world, with little of that spirit of adventure which an easy access to the vast fur-bearing interior had developed in their Canadian kindred ; having few waats, and those of the rudest ; fishing a little and hunting in the winter, but chiefly employed in cultivating the meadows along the River Annapolis, or rich marshes reclaimed by dikes from the tides of the Bay of Fiindy. The British Government left them entirely free of taxation. They made clothing of flax and wool of their own raising, hats of similar materials, and shoes or moccasins of moose and seal-skin. They bred cattle, sheep, hogs, and horses in (.abundance ; and the valley of the Annapolis, then as now, was known for the profusion and excellence of its apples. For drink, they made cider or brewed spruce-beer. French officials describe their dwellings as wretched wooden boxes, without ornaments or conveniences, and scarcely supplied with the most neces- sary furniture. Two or more families often occupied the same house ; and their way of life, though simple and virtuous, was by no means remarkable for cleanliness. Such as it was, contentment reigned among them, undisturbed by what modern America calls progress. Marriages were earlj', and population grew apace. This humble society had its disturbing elements ; for the Acadians, like the Canadians, were a litigious race, and neighbors often quarrelled about their boundaries. Nor were they without a bountiful share of jealousy, gossip, and back- biting, to relieve the monotony of their lives ; and every village had its turbulent spirits, sometimes by fits, though rarely long, contumacious even towards the cur6, the guide, counsellor, and ruler of his flock. Enfeebled by hereditary mental subjection, and too long kept in leading- strings to walk alone, they needed him, not for the next world only, but for this ; and their submission, compounded of love and fear, was commonly without bounds. He was their true government ; to him they gave a frank and full allegiance, and dared not disobey him if they would. Of knowledge he gave them nothing ; but he taught them to be true to their wives and constant at confession and Mass, to stand fast for the Church and King Louis, and to resist heresy and King George ; for, in one degree or another, the Acadian priest was always APPENDICES. 139 tho universal blest, - in the 1 of tolerance Hpel,' or good I this way the Hnoasurably." tho agent of a double-headed foreign power, — the Bishop of Quebec allied with the Oovernor of Canada." The student should read the whole of Parkman'a chapter from which the above extract is taken. See chapter viii. of " Montcalm and Wolfe," — " Removal of the Acadians." nade an id(!al md verse, till ^condition anvl were a simple ivil days came little of that jaring interior ats, and those sr, but chiefly Annapolis, or tay of Fundy. ation. They Eits of similar . They bred valley of the excellence of )eer. French xes, without moat neoes- same house ; jy no means signed among Marriages ciety had its ians, were a boundaries. >, and back- llage had its ontumacious of his flock. )t in leading- rid only, but fear, was ent ; to him him if they ight them to iss, to stand y and King was always G. (l)-BLOMIDON. •'This is that black rock bastion, based in snrpe, Pregnant with aj,'atc and with amethyst, Whose foot the tides o( atoried Minas scouij^e, Whose top austere withdraws into its mist. Tiiis is that ancient cape of tears and storm. Whose towerin;,' front inviolable frowns O'er valos Evanjjeline and love keep warm — Whose fame thy so»\i, O tender sinjfer, crowns. Yonder, across these reeling; fields of foam, Game the sad threat of the avenpfing ships. What profit now to know if just tho doom, Thou^'h harsh 1 The Btreaminfj eyes, the praying lips, The shadow of ine,\tinguishable pain, The poet's deathless music— these remain !" —Chtrlea 0. D. J{i>bert8. !i J (2)-T0 THE RIVER CHARLES. "River ! that in silence windest Thioii;,'h the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou tindest In the bosom of the sea ! Four long joars of mingled feeling, Half in rest, and half iti strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. Thou hast taught me. Silent River t Many a lesson, deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver ; I can give thee but a o»ig. Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy cu' rent glide, Till the beauty of its stil! ness Overflowed me, like a ide. And in better hours and brighter. When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter. And leap'onward with thy stream. Not for this alone T love thee. Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear. Friends 1 love have dwelt beside thee. And have made thy margin dear. 1^' 140 APPENDICES. -thy ni Of three friundH, all true ami tried ; And that naiiiu like iiiairio hindti inu Closer, closer to thy Hide. Friends my soul with joy remcnihcrs ! How like quivcrinij: HatneH tliey Hturt, When I fan the living enihers On the hearth-stono of my heart I 'Tis for thlM, thou Silent Uiver ! That my f^pirit leaaa to thee ; Thou host been a g;cnerouH ((iver, Take this idle song from me." — Jjono;ir life be lengthened by a lay. He shall not go, although his presence may. And the next age in praise shall double this." — James linssdl Lowell. (2)— THE POET AND THE CHILDREN. ' With a glory of winter sunshine Over his locks of gray, In the old historic mansion He sat on his last birthday. With his books and his pleasant pictures, And his household and his kin. While a sound as of myriads singing From far and near stole in. It came from his own fair city, From the prairie's bouiuiless plain, From the Golden Gate of sunset. And the cedarn woods of Maine. And his heart grew warm within him. And his moistening eyes {jrcw dim ; For he knew that his country's children Were singing the songs of him : The lays of his life's glad morning, The psalms of his evening time, Whose echoes shall floht forever On the winds of every clime. All their beautiful consolations, Sent forth like birds of cheer, Came flocking bai;k to his windows, And sang in the poet's ear. Grateful, but solemn and tender, The music rose and fell. With a joy akin to sadness And a greeting like farewell. With a sense of awe he listened To the voices sweet and yoimg : The last of earth and the; first of heaven Seemed in the songs they sung. .I'll i-.'.l ; 144 APPENDICES. Jsi '\ 11 V ill 111 And waitinfir a littlo lon^^er For the wonderful change to come, He heard the summoning angel Who calls God's children home I And to him, in a holier welcome. Was the mystical meaning given Of the words of the blessed Master : •Of such is the kingdom of heaven ! ' " —Whittier. (3)— IN MEMORIAM. " 'Not to be tuneless in old age I* Ah ! surely blest his pilgrimage. Who, in his winter s snow, Still sings with note as sweet and clear As in the morning of the year. When the first violets blow ! Blest I — but more blest, whom summer's heafc, Whom spring's impulsive stir and beat. Have taught hq feverish lure ; Whose muse, benignant and serene. Still keeps his autumn chaplet green, Because his verse is pure t Lie calm, O white and laureate head i Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead, Since from the voiceless grave Thy voice shall speak to old and young While song yet speaks an English tongue By Charles' or Thamis' wave ! " — Austin Dobion,