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THE COPP, CLARK CO., LTD., TORCNTO. /fr ENGLISH POETICAL m\m\l FOR 1891 FOR anibcreitB Jftatriculntion anb ^cpavtmcntal |;cabinB ^examination LONGFELLOW'S EVANGELINE AND SIXTEEN OF HIS SHORTER POEMS WITH I5IOGKAl>IIlCAl. AND CRITICAL INTRODUCTIONS. AND NOTKS ON THP: POEMS BY H. I. STRANG, B.A., and A. J. MOOKK, B.A. Goderick Hi^li School THE COPP. CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED 18 9 ? C% 175111 l':.if»>red acoord.Mjr to Act of IMrlmn.ei.t .,f fanmla. in tho voar onr. fhn,,. i • , . ^ hundred and ninety, by Thk C n-. c;..hk CoMr.xv L. n ." i„ he''^offl;r the Minister of Agriculture. ^i n M', in the office of PREFACE, In sending foi'th tliis edition of the Pootic.il Lito)'atn?'e ])re- scribed for the Univei.sity and Denartmental Exaniinatioim of next yoiir, the editois take the opportiniity to exjness tlieir sincere tljaiiks for the fuvoralde reception thei)- previous issues liave UK't with at the hands of their fellow teachejs throujihout the Province. Owing to the change in tlie Regulations no attempt has bc^n made this time to deal with tlj(! subject of prose. As to what they have tried to do for the poetry, they cannot do V)eiter, perhaps, tlum repeat the following paragn-ph from last year's preface : "Tiie object of the introduction is to enable students to understand clearly what manner of man the writer wr.s, under what; circumstances he wrote the poem? to l)e .st'.ulied, and by what influences he was likely to be affected, and also to call attenZ/ion to some of the leading characteristics of his style ; that iif the notes to lighten the labor of bcth teachers and stude?its, and to lead the latter to observe and to jtidge for themselves. If the notes err on the side of fulness it is l)ecause the editors have kept in mind the case of candidates studying by themselves, and of others who may noJb have ready access to good works of reference." The text of the i)oems has been taken from Routledore's excellent edition, and in ])reparing the Intioduction and N(;tes free use has been mad(^ of Robertson's TAfe of Loiuj/eJlow in the " Great Writers" Series, and of the Evangeline and ^Stndiea in Lonyfidlow in the " Riverside Literature" Series. • • • IV i' Hi: TACK. Tliu editors, wliilo liopini;; tliat tlio result of tlioir ctrortH will !)(• fouml as helpful and as worthy of favor aa in previous years rt»gr(.'t that owiiiLf to the late period at whieli th< task was undertaken, and to the |;)ressuro of other duties, the work has been more hurriedly done, and the book later in being issued than is desirable. In conclusion, aa t'.iis may be the last time that they appear before the public in this capacity, the nominally senior editor wishes to say that iji this case, as heretofore, the bulk of the work has been done by Mr. Moore, that the Intro- duction and the greater pai't of the notes appear substantially as ^vritten by him, and that the senior editor's share has simply been to suggest, revise, ar:d make sii-»h few aiteratiojm or additions as he thouurht best. GoDERicii, July, 1890. <-'J<>/f>s will vious years ^H»"o has terat:oi)H rx)ngfollow was of New Eii;^liiud stock. A John AMcii and a Priscillii Mullens, * who came out together in th« Sfatfjlower, by their union became the ancestors of Zilpah Wadsworth, the poet's mother. About sixty yeara hiter a William Lon^jiellow, from Yorkshire, like the Puritan Priscilla first mentioned, settled in Massachusetts, and was the< ancestor of Stephen, the poet's father. His mother's people were at fii*st in no way dis- tinguished, and the earlier Longfeliows had but indifferent headpieces, but as the streams of descent converged towards our l)oet, the lelining influence of education and wealth, or the mysterious power of natural selection began to be felt. Thus in the times of the Revolution one grandfather, Peleg Wadswoi-th, of Portland, in the state of Maine, figured as a General, active in the war, while about the same time, and in the same town, his other grandfather, Stephen Longfellow, became a Judge of Common Pleas. Here in February, 1807, Henry Wadsworth was bom, the second of a family of eight. His father, a graduate of Harvard Law School, a refined, scholarly and religious man, bestowed every attention on his children's education and mannera. His mother knew but little else than her Bible and Psalm book, but was esteemed by all as a lady of piety and Christian endeavor, and transmitted her gentle nature as well as her handsome features to her favorite son. He grew up, a slim, long-legged lad, quite averse to spoi-t or rude forms of exercise, and from his earliest school going was studious in the extreme. It is in- * The original of the Maiden who says to John Alden in Miles Standish, don't you speak tor yourself, John f " V Whj VI LIFK OK I.ONOFKLLOW. <^'H*Ht,ini{ to note Iuh favorite hookH, Ho loved (hyu)/>er*tt po^uiHy LalliL lioolh, (fstiidu, tlio Ar«>?* (/nixole, hut above till lie WfW eiiaiiior«Ml of the Skefrh Hook. \\\ t?ie few boyinh atlemptR at veiw-writin*; which are preMiMveil we can Hcarcely He« either the fruit of his reading or the j{K)tli |./oh(i and |)oetry, and seem to loso hut litth) in vividncHs hy thout which no one ever has been or ever will be in raptures. The scenes are true enough, but in the humdrum affairs of a country village, there are not many worth depicting. Longfellow seems to have been quite incapable of understanding that a plot is one great essential to an interesting story. Next year, however, his new volume of poems con tainted two pieces which would have atoned • Chispa. ♦ The prettiest is "Stars of the Summer Night," set to music by many composers, but perhaps best by Henry Smart and J. T^. HaS^ton. xU LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. for a n»iich duller tale tlian Kavanagh, namely, Resiy nation and The Buildiny of the Kih'ip. Tliis last, modelled as to form on Schiller's Song of the Bell, is one of the noblest of Long- fellow's poems, and the concluding lines * have always been enthusiastically received by A.raerican audiences. TJie Golden Legend (1851) is of the 13th century, and attempts the reproduction of Mediaeval machinery. Bands of angels, troops of devils, Lucifer himself, monks and choristers and minnesingers are the draraatU personce. A Mystery or Miracle play is introduced, as are also a friar's sermon, and here and there Latin hymns. As an imitation and illustration of the superstitions, customs and manners of the Middle Ages, it must be considered as both successful and instructive. As the burden of the play is the misleading of a Prince by the Evil One, and the treatment not dissimilar, it might almost be called a version of Goethe's Faust. Hitherto nearly all Longfellow's work had an Old World coloring, born of a student's natural reverence for the past, and his sojourn in lands richer in poetic material than his native America. But Hiawatha was distinctly a venture in a quite original field. Pope saw in the Indian only an object of com- passion ; Fenimore Cooper invested him with some dignity and other virtues ; Longfellow found in him and his surroundings material for poetry ! But this was before the advent of the white man, ** In his great canoe with pinious. From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun." * Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State ; Sail on, O Union, strong and <,'reat We know what Master laid thy keel, What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, ■ What anvilti rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! etc. LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. Xlll before the use of firearms and firewater had begun their dea'.. LIFR OF LONOPELLOW. XVll ne8«. What short of the best could be the reward of this good and great man of blameless life, whose work had ever the loftiest aims? May we not well trust the burden of his own requiem, chanted as the bearers lowered his body to mother earth. He is dead, the sweet musician ! He is gone from us forever I He has moved a little nearer To the Master of all music, To the Master of all singing 1 * List oi Poems referring to incidents in the poet's life : Miles Standish. Psalm of Life. Footsteps of Angels. The Old Clock on the Stairs. To the River Charles. A Gleam of Sunshine. The two Angels. My Lost Youth. The Children's Hour. 'I'hree Friends of Mine. Morituri Salutamus. From My Arm Chair. In the Long Watches of the Night. Tales of a Wayside Inn. *XV. Hiawatha's Lamentation. CllKONOLOiJICAL TAUALLKJ. LoNUKKI.IiOW'H liIKH ANI> WoKKH. 1«07 1812 1814 1816 1818 1819 1822 1825 1826 1827 1828 1829 1831 1833 1834 1835 1836 1839 1840 1841 1842 1843 1845 Morn at Fortlund, Feb. 27. Ones to Bowdoln. Uruduatea. Goes to Kurope— at PariH, At Madrid, at Ilome In Germany. Professor at Bow- doin. Inurn. t^e. First " ''olume — a Translation. Profesfor at Har- vard. Outre Mer, Revisits Europe, death of wife At Harvard, 1837 Psalm of LiJ'e. Voiccn of the Night, Hyperion. Wrexik of the lies- j)erus. Excchior: 3rd visit to Europe, Poems on Slavery. Spanii^h Student, 2nd Marriage. Poets and Poetry qf Europe, AMKIIICAN LiTKKATIJRB. Wliitticr, Axassl/, Haw- thorne, h. Hohnes, i'oe, b., Irvin^f's Jlixt. qf New York. Thanatopgia. Motley, 6. lleavysege, 6. Lowell, Whitman, b. Jlrdcehfidne Ilnll, The Spy. Dana's Buccaneers, Hal- leck's Ist vol. Cooper'g Prairie, Irvinff's Columbus, Poo's Ist volume. 1832, Brj'ant's Ist. volume, Irvine's Alhambra. Two Years before the Mast. Browning's Paracelsus. Knomhii Litrratiirb. Ilmtrs o/ Idleness, Mar- 7« /on (I h( 18). Gertrude of Wyoming, Queen Mab, Curse qf Kehama, Lady qf Lake (1810X Dickens, Browning b., Thackeray, 1811, Childe Harold, Cantos i., ii. Wamrley, The Excursion. Old Mortality, Christabel, Lalla llookh (1817). Endymion, Childe Harold completie. Kuskin b., Ivanhoe, I'rom- etheus Unbound. Macaulay's Essay on Mil- ton. Tennyson's Ist vol. 1830. 1832, Scott d. Tennyson's 2nd vol. Sartor liesartus. 1837, Ferdinand and Isa- bella, I'wice Told Tales, Sam, Slick. Bret Harte, 6., Whittier's Ballads (1838). Bancroft's History of CoU onization, Emerson's 1st series of Essays, Lowell's 1st vol. of poems. Channing, d. Conquest of Mexico. Poe's Raven, xviii 1837, Picktvick Papers^ Carlyle's Fr. Revolution. Macaulay's Lays, Locksley Hall. Dickens' Am,ertcan Notet, Modem Pai^Uers, Carlyle's CvonvwelL CHRONOLOGICAL PARALLRL. XIX 1640 1847 1840 1850 1851 1854 1855 1850 1857 1858 1861 1863 1864 1808 1869 1870 1871 1873 1874 1876 1876 1878 1880 1882 l,ON(tKKLI.i>w'H I, UK ANU WURKH. The Iklfryuf linii/VH Evangeline, Kavanaph. The nuildingofthe Ship. TheOolden Le(jend. Kesitnis Proft'Hsor- Hhip. Hiawatha, Miles Standitih. Death of 2nd wife. Tales qf a Wayside Inn. Dante, completed. Aftermath. The Hanging of the Crane, Keramog. Ultima Thule, Death, Maroh 24. A^iwMi/. at llitrviird, Ktiier- HOn'H iHt vol. of |M)t'IIIH, MoHHe» from nn old Maime. Coiitiwut of Peru, Holinpn at Harvard; 184H, Big. low I'ajtfre. I'oo (/., KincrHon's Rf/nree- entatiw Men, Irvine's Uoldmnith. Whlttler'H SonifH of ljiih„r. Uncle Tom'H Cabin, The Scarli't Letter, Irvinif'a Mahomet. Iloum of Seri'n Gahleg, CooiHjr, WebHter, Clay,d. Ix)weli Huccecda hhii. Leaves of Orass, Prescott'g J'hilvp II. Emereon'M Eng. Traite, The Dutch Republic. Autocrit of the BronkfiHt Tablf, Heavysejfe'H Saul. The AtlatUic MoiUhlij begun. Prescott d. (1859). 1800, The United Nether- land's, Saii;j^ster'8 Ilea- perus. Whittler'8 In War Time. Hawthorne d.. Heavy sege'a Jephtha's Daughter. Emerson's 2nd volume of poems. Lowell's Under the WU- Imoa. EmersoTi's 3rd volume of Essays, B. Harte's I'oems. Lowell's My Study Win- dows, Emerson's 4th vol. 1872, Holmes' Professor and Poet at the Break- fast Table. Whittier's Mabel Martin, Agossiz, (/., Bancroft's Ilist. of America, com- pleted. Emerson's Letters and Social AimJt. Whittier's Centennial Hymn, (4nhriel Co arm) . Bryant d.. Mofkyd. (1877X Lowell, Minister at Loudon. F^Nl(>iiid th«ni Heven wccUh later, tiie New Kngland(MH were the first to act. La fjoutro, t\u) French missionary, who had been (^ver the in- veterate enemy of th(^ English, anporell, and consisting of 4,000 men, 13 vessels, and 200 cannon, reached Louisburg on the 1st May, 1745. The <»arrison was completely surprised, and before they had recovered, the English were in possession of the outworks. In 49 days the surrender took place, and six hundred regulars, thirteen hun- dred militia, and some thousands of the townsfolk were shipped back to France. Hannay says, apparently with some bitter- ness : " The news was received in Europe with incredulous sur- prise. Had such a deed of arms been done in Greece, two thou- sand years ago, the details would have been taught in the !H1 xxii CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. schools g*n»oration after f^rmeration, ^ivAit jioets would have wedded them to immortal verse. But as the people who won this triumph were not Greeks or Komans, but only colonists, the affair was but the talk of a day, and most of the books culled histories of England, ignore it altogether." The heroism was expended in vain, for in 1748, the colonists saw with feelings of indignation, the island of Cape Breton and the fortress of Louisburg, given back to France, to become once more their menace, and once more their prize. During all this time the Acadians were accused of acting with duplicity, secretly furnishing aid to the French, and secretly stirring up the Indians. In the summer of 1749, when Hali- fax was founded, Governor Cornwallis plainly told them this, and that all must take a new oath of allegiance by the end of October. If not, they must leave the country, and leave their effects behind them. This was refused, and the relations between them rapidly became strained, even to the verge of belligerence. There is no doubt that La Loutre, the missionary before mentioned, who was at that time Vicar-General of Acadia, under the Bishop of Quebec, stirred up the Micmacs to revolt, and induced the Acadians to be obstinate. By persuasion or threats he had already induced some two thousand Acadians to leave their homes and cross the boundary. This boundary was the Missiquash river ; on its north side was the fort Beau Sejour, erected by the Fiench ; and there were other forts with settlements about them at Bale Verte and St. John. Many were in a miserable condition, and wished to re- turn to their lands, but would not take the proffered oath.* La Loutre lost no opportunities by sermons and emissaries to create ill will to the English gci risons at Minas, Piziquid, Chig- necto and other places. The English complained that the Acadians were hostile in every sense, short of open rebellion. * " Je promets et jure sinctVement que je serai fiddle, et que je porterai une loyaut^ parfuite vera sa Majesty George Second." CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. XXIU Id have ivho won colonists, le books heroism 1 feelings >rtress of ore their ing with secretly en Hali- tem this, le end of id leave relations i^erge of ssionary leral of Viicmacs )me two undary. lide was re were and St. d to re- l oath.* aries to , Chig. lat the bellion, le loyaut^ (Hrryjng their supplies of provisions sinross the Bay, and it evcMi required a mandate from Halifax to induce them to sell wood to the English forts. Thus everything was ripe for war whQii war again began. The commission to settle the limits of Acadia had failed, and both sides were preparing for the struggle. The English, as in 174-5, were first ready to strike, and sailing from the same port of Boston, were as fortunate as before, for they succeeded in reducing the French forts at Beau St^our, Baie Vei-te and St. John. In fact of the four expeditions of that year, (1755) this alone had a complete measure of success. And now the expatriation of the Acadians was resolved on. That such an extreme measure was justifiable we can hardly believe. Yet, much can be said in extenuation. It was at the beginning of a mortal and doubtful struggle between these two nations for the supremacy of a contineni. Half way measures might mean ruin. The Acadians claimed to be regarded as neutrals, yet they had not remained so ; positive proof existed of their aiding the Fiench, and stirring up the savages to revolt and rapine. Allowed the free exercise of their faith, and any number of priests, till these were found acting as political agents, with no taxation but a tithe to their own clergy, they were growing rich, and were much better off in every way than their compatriots in France, and immeasurably more so than the wretched Canadians under the rapacious Bigot. British settlement had been retarded by their presence. Surely every government had the right to demand an unconditional oath of allegiance against all enemies whatsoever. This was the burden of Gen. Lawrence's address to the pro- testing delegations from the various settlements. But as they still obstinately refused the oath, active measures were at once set on foot for their removal from the colony. Exj)editions were sent out to bum houses and destroy all places of shelter. Resistance was not to be anticipated, as they had been deprived XXIV CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. I* I 3 :! ii !i Ii 'ii l! of arms some time before, yet, at Chignecto and som^ other places, they met witli resistance, and suffered considerable loss from the French aiid 'Indians. On Minas Basin, Colonel Win- slow had no opposition. On Friday, the 5tli September, all males of 10 years and up- wards were ordered to attend at the church in Grand- Pr^. Over four hundred attended and remained prisoners till the time of embarkation. Vessels were collected from various quarters, and as much as possible of the people's household effects was taken. Similar measures were taken at the other settlements, the troops employed doing the work of collecting the people, and embarking them as quietly and tenderly as possible. Care was taken not to separate ftimilies, but some sad separations there must have been. They were taken to Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Georgia, the Carolinas, and the West Indies. The number is much disputed. Hannay, who sums up against the Acadians on most points, puts it at a little over three thousand, two-thirds of whom after a time returned. By some the number is put as high as eight thousand, of which three thousand only returned.* ORIGIN OF THE POEM. It was to Hawthorne that the poet was, indirectly at least, indebted for the subject. The circumstances under which it was suggested, and the preparation made for writing the poem, are thus told in Robertson's Life. * Dr. Kingsford, in the 3rd vol. of his History qf Canada, takes an even more dedded position against the Acadians tliaii llannay, so that Longfellow's pictures of the people and of the priests as well, would seem utterly fictitious. He makes the most sweeping charges as to the political character and motives of the French priests, their never end- ing intrigues, and the instigation to outrage and massacre of the savages under their spiritual control. The Acadians are represented as anything but the peaoe-Iovin((, religious, hospitable and brave people that our poet pictures, lie shows clearly that the kings of France and the governors of Canada made use of La Loutre for their schemes and afterwards repudiated him. 3m^ other rable loss ►nel Win- 's and up- ^v6. Over le time of quarters, ffects was itleraents, le people, le. Care parations ichusetts, bhe West irho sums ittle over led. By of which at least, which it e poem, >re decided I the people Bt sweeping jneverend- jnder their •lovinjf, |early that for their CRITICAL INTKODUCTION. XXV " Hawthorne one day dined at Craigie House, and brought with him a clergyman. The latter happened to remark that he had been vainly endeavoring to interest Hawthorne in a subjectjthat he himself thought would do admirably for a story. He then related the history of a young Acadian girl, who had been turned away with her people in that dire " '55," there- after became separated from her lover, wandered for many years in search of him, and finally found him in a hospital dying. * Ijet mo have it for a poem, then,' said Longfellow, and he had the leave at once. He raked up historical material from Haliburton'K * Nova Scotia,' and other books, and soon was steadily building up that idyl which is his true Golden Legend. Beyond consulting records, he put together the material of Evangeline entirely out of his head ; that is to say, he did not think it necessary to visit Acadia and pick up local color. When a boy he had lambled about the old Wads worth home at Hiram, climbing often to a balcony on the roof, and thence looking over great stretches of wood and hill ; and from recollections of such a scene it was comparatively easy for him to imagine the forest primeval." THE MEASURE OP EVANGELINE. is what is generally called dactylic hexameter. But as the num- ber of accents and not the number of the syllables or the quan- tity of the vowels, is the true criterion for English verse, we may call it the hexameter verse of six accents, the feet being either dactyls or trochees. This measure has nevei- become very popular with English poets. The caesural pause is usually about the middle of the line, after the accented syllable of the 3rd or 4th foot. In this measure a sing song monot- ony is the great evil to be guarded against, and Longfellow is very successful in avoiding an excess of it by dexterously shift- ing the place of the main vei-se pause. Trochees are inter- li ill: XXVI CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. chan/^eable with dactyls, sind occur very frequently everywhere, but always conclude the line. On' the I mor'iow to | me'et in the | chu'rch || when his | ma'jesty's | ma'udatc. And a | no'n with his | wo'oden | slioes | beat | tim'e to the | mu'sic. The following has been pointed out as a very perfect hexa- meter scansion : Chanting the | Hundredth | Psalm — that | grand old | Puritan | An- them. And the following is almost comic in the violent wrench the scansion gives to the natural reading of the words : Children's | children | sa't on his [ kne'e || and | hea'rd his great j wa'tch tick. We must be allowed to quote from the poet's most discrimin- ating biographer ; his remarks are so telling and to the point. "The truth is that this measure, within its proper use, should be regarded not as a bastard classicism, but as a wholly modern invention. Impassioned speech more often breaks into pentameter and hexameter than into any other measure. Long- fellow himself has pointed to the splendid hexameters that abound in our Bible. ' Husbands love your wives, and be not bitter against them ;* * God is gone up with a shout, the Lord with the sound of a trumpet.* " *' Would Mr. Swinburne, simply because these are English hexameters, deny their lofty beauty 1 This form of verse will never, in all probability, be- come a favorite vehicle for poets' thoughts, but by a singular tour de force f Longfellow succeeded in getting rid of the popular preju- dice against it, and whatever the classicists may say, he put more varied melody into his lines than Clough, Hawtrey, Kingsley, Howells or Bayard Taylor, attained in similar experi- ments. '* — Robertson. Longfellow, after much thought and some experiment, decided that this v/as the most fitting form, and we are now certain that his fine sense of harmony and form was not at fault. The har- rywhere, /jesty's I mu'sic. ct hexa- itan I An- Bnch the 3 great | Lscrimin- le point. ^r use, I wholly aks into Long- jrs that be not le Lord tibume, >ir lofty ity, be- ar tour c preju- le put wtrey, Bxp^ri- ecided n that e har- CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. XXVU monious and slightly monotonous rise and fall of this uncom- mon but not un-English metro, is well adapted to convey that * lingering melancholy ' which pervades the tale, and that epic simplicity was in agreement with the supposed character of a people so for removed in time fi*om us hard headed, unromantic, and therefore unattractive moderns. Longfellow says, in his diary : " I tried a passage of it in the common rhymed English pentameter. It is the mocking-bird's song. " Upon a spray, that overhung the stream, The mocking-hird, awaking from his dream, Poured such delicious music from his throat That all the air seemed listening to his note. Plaintive at first the song began and slow ; It breathed of sadness, and of pain and woe ; Then gathering all his notos, abroad he flung The multitudinous mus . irom. his tongue ; As, after showers, a sudden gust again, Upon the leaves shakes down the rattling rain." Now, let the student compare with this the lines of Evangeline, (part ii., 11. 208-217) and he will be satisfied, we think, that the latter are preferable. The jingle of the rhyme and the shorter pulse of the line would have been less in agreement with that vein of protracted pathos and melancholy distinctive of the poem. CHARACTERISTICS OF THE MAN AND OF HIS POETRY. Longfellow was too broadly human to speak in the dogmatic manner of the creeds. His Unitarianism never peeps out. A poet's religion must of necessity be broad and tolerant, and Longfellow's, although truly Christian, was distinctly so. He was no controversialist or polemic ; religion was with him a matter of the heart rather than of the head. The Roman Catholics are said to have at one time thought him tending in their direction ; but the truth was simply this, that he was XXVlll CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. I easily led to eoiiuiiond whatever by its beauty or nobility grati- fied the artist instinct within him. In this way he was a religious eclectic. A child-lik'^ trust that God's way is the best, resignation to His will, and a resolve to do the duty that lies before him is the substance of Longfellow's moral philosophy. Lucifer, even, . . . *' Is God's minister. And labors for some good By us not understood." and again- " What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps." nil ^ II: Hope ever points the way, and should excite to action. His smaller pieces, such as The Psahn^ Excelsior, and the Villaye Blacksmith, have been very successful, because they reflect the spirit of the Anglo-American race, their utilitarian and practi- cal aims. To labor is our duty — success will be our reward. Do the duty that lies nearest you, and let there be no repining. Act, act in the living present. Some have sneered at these low ideals as poem-stuff*; but the fact remains that these verses have become household words, and, although we are likely to be pitied for saying so, will perhaps be treasured when the flights of Shelley or the mysteries of Browning are forgotten or are still unintelligible. Of dramatic power Longfellow had small share, for the absence of passion alone unfitted him for the inner conflict of the sj)irit. His strength is in the portrayal of still life, i.e. external nature, or the comparatively uneventful and colorless course of domestic rural life. Of such he can see every minutest beauty, and from such extract every poetic grace. In marking out a course for himself in the Prelude he says : "Look, then, into thy heart and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream ! " He never carried out his rule, Xt was not in his gentle, loving CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. XXIX le was a nature to look on tbe soaniy side of life. Of the "deep stream " he had little experience, and there are no great depths of sorrow or heights of joy in his life or writings. To the ear of this sesthetic litterateur^ this accomplished disciple (not apostle) of culture and beauty, their notes ever blend in har- mony — " I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That filled the haunted chambers of the night. Like some old poet's rhymes." Love, as between the sexes, has scarcely any place in Long- fellow's poetry, and of his smaller pieces not one is addressed to an individual in amatory and impassioned language. His con- ception of their relation is purely connubial — *' As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman ; Though she bends him she obeys him, Though she draws him yet she follows. Useless each without the other." Malevolent humor forms a large portion of our dramatic literature, and Longfellow was by no means a good hater. In fact, he hated nobody and nothing. Added to all this, he was very deficient in the comic vein, and criticS; with great unanimity, agree that of plot he had no just notion. Now, as we know that love, hate and jealousy, conjoined with planning, are main ingredients in the drama of life, and must be of the writing that mirroi*s it, we can easily see how Longfellow comes short of even moderate success in his dramatic efforts. He shuts his eyes to the shadows of life ; he enjoins us to have a " heart for any fate," but he shrinks from picturing its stern and repulsive realities. Pope's sententious maxim, "Whatever is is best," is illustrated on almost every page. The devil himself we have seen to be God's minister ; the rows of be^s ii^ the hospitals are au attractive object for him; XXX CRITtCAL INTRODUCTION. death is the " consoles- and hc;al(;r ; " the grave is " a covered bridge leading from light to light." In his sermon-poems (and what restful, joyful sermons they are) we never hear of the gloomy doctrine of eternal punishment ; it would seem quite foreign to the poet's creed. In the imaginative faculty, that creative power that dis- tinguishes the i)oetry of, say Milton and Shelley, he was lack- ing, but in fertility of fancy he excels ; he has always an eye and an ear for the suggestive side of a theme. It is almost a mannerism of his to comiiaro an outward fact with an inward experience ; hence his seeing and searching for similes with generally successful, but sometimes doubtful or weakening effect. This facile fancy of his had hosts of imitators, but they could not embellish it with his tender and beautiful sayings, which have sunk so deeply into the hearts of the present generation. He easily excels all poets of his day in the art of story- telling. His best stories are short enough to leave an impres- sion of unity. Their brevity, their absence of intricate plots, the good judgment in the selection of subjects, the fitting verse- form and graceful treatment, have charmed a world of readers. He became very early aware that in this age of story-telling only the poetry that recounts will lastingly interest our boys and girls, and even our men and women. Consequently he strove to be interesting, and (as he himself confessed) to the people. " In England Longfellow has been called the poet of the middle classes. Those classes include, however, the majority of intelligent readers, and Tennyson had an equal share of their favor. The English middle cla&n form an analogue to the one great class of American readers. Would not any poet whose work might lack the subtlety that commends itself to pro- fessional readers be relegated by University critics to the middle-class wards ? Caste and literary priesthood have some- CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. XXXI thing to p<;llationH given to him of i)oet of the aflections, of the night, of tho sea. (8) Can you discover tho American, tho Puritan, the scholar in these selections 1 Where 1 (9) He is said to l)e " intensely national " and of " universal nationality." Are these contradictory ] (10) Mention the poems wliich are moat American in iyicident and in spirit. " Much of his time and talent was (Unvoted to reproducing in English the work of fonjign authors. In the smaller pieces his talent is moat conspicuous, for in them sentiment is con- densed into a few stanzas. His copious vocabulary, his sense for the value of words, his ear for rliythm, fitted him in a pecu- liar degree to pour fancy from one vessel into another." — Frotli- ingham. " Longfellow had not Bryant's depth of feeling for ancient history or external nature. Morality to Emerson was the very breath of existence ; to Longfellow it was a sentiment. Poe's best poetic efforts are evidence of an imagination more self- sufficient than Longfellow's was. In the best of Whittier's poems, the pulse of human sympathy beats more strongly than in any of our poet's songs. Still more unlike his sentimentality is the universal range of Whitman's manly outspoken kinsman- ship with all living things. How then has he outdistanced these men so easily] By virtue of his artistic eclecticism." — Robertson. The full answer as given by Roljertson may be summed up as follows : — He had more variety than Bryant, in measure and choice of subject; his humanitarianism is not pitched too high for common people to grasp, as Emerson's often is ; he was a CRITICAL INTKODUCTION. XXXV man of iiioro iiiomi priiiciplo aixl common sonHn than Poo ; Inmuiy und mural gouHH wont togothor with liungtollow ; by reason of IiIh culturu and luarning h<* apinalocl to wider audiences than Whittior ; and lastly his jMjotiy in wholly (vw from the grosHness of Whitman, and, while as (Misily umler- Htood by the many, is at the Hume time more .iltnictive in form and treatment. (1) Haa Longfellow a deep sense of th mystery of nature, or any sense of it as hate 1 Point out some paKsages of trust and worship. (2 Would you from your list of selections call him a religi- ous poet 1 a moral poet 1 (3) Which of his pocMus have " man " in thought ] Is the effect of his poetry as here given active or passive, restful or stirring, to t^ach duty or simply to give pleasure 1 Distinguish the passages. I!h CHAUACTERISTICS OF POKTIO DICTION.* 1. It is archaic and non-colloquial. (a) Poetry, being less conversational than prose, is less affected by the changes of a living tongue, and more influenced by the language and traditions of the poetry of past ages. (6) Not all words are adapted for metie. (c) Certain words and forms of expression being repeated by successive poets acquire poetic associations, and become part of the common inheritance of poets. 2. It is more picturesque than prose. (a) It prefei-s specific, concrete, and vivid terms to generic, abstract, and vague ones. (b) It often uses words in a sense different from their ordin- ary meaning. * See GenuiiK's Rhetoric, pp. 48^. XXXVl CRITICAL INTRODDCTION. (c) It often substitutes an epithet for the thing denoted. Note.— Diatingniah between ontamental epithets, added to give color, interest and life to the picture, and essential epithets, necessary to convey the proper meaning. 3. It is averse to lengthinesa. (a) It omits conjunctions, relative pronouns and auxiliaries, und makes free use of absolute and [)articipial constructions. (b) It substitutes epithets and compounds for phrases and clauses. (c) It makes a free use of ellipsis. (d) It avoids long common-place words. NoTK. — Sometimes, however, for euphony, euphemism, or pictures - queness it substitutes a periphrasis for a word. 4. It pays more regard to euphony than prose does. 5. It allows inversions and constructions not used in prose. 6. It employs figures of speech much more freely than prose. Qualities of Style. 1. Intellectual, including Clearness (opposed to Obscurity and Ambiguity), Simplicity (opposed to Abstruseness), Impres- siveness and Picturesqueness. 2. Emotional, including Strength (Force), Feeling (Pathos), the Ludicrous (Wit, Humor and Satire). 3. iEsthotic, including Melody, Harmony (of Sound and Sense), Taste. I 1' l^i EVANGELINE. A TALE OF ACADIE. 1847. PREFATORY NOTK Thf. story of " ETANOiLnra" is founded on a pidnful ooourrenoe which took place In the early period of British colonization in the northern part of America^ In the year 171S, Acadia, or, as it is now named, Nova Scotia, was ceded to Great Britain by the French. The wishes of the inhabitants seem to have been little con- sulted in the change, and they with great difficulty were induced to talce the oaths of allegiance to the British Government. Some time after this, war having again broken out between the French and British in Canada, the Acadians were accused of having assisted the French, from whom they were descended, and connected by many ties of friendship, with provisions and ammunition, at the siege of Beau S^Jour. Whether the accusation was founded on fact or not, has not been satisfactorily ascertained ; the result, however, was most disastrous to the primitive, simple-minded Acadians. The British Government ordered them to be removed from their homes, and dispersed throughout the other colonies, at a distance from their much-loved land. This resolu- tion was not communicated to the inhabitants till measures had been matured to cany it into immediate effect ; when the Governor of the colony, having issued a summons calling the whole people to a meeting, informed them that their lands, tenements, and cattle of all kinds were forfeited to the British crown, that he had orders to remove them in vessels to distant colonies, and they must renoain in custody till their em- barkation. The poem ia descriptive of the fate of some of the persons involved in these calamitous proceedings. This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the nemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight^ Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep- voiced neighbouring ocean 5 Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the wood-land the voice of the huntsman ? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 10 3 33 34 EVANaELINB. Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven t Waste are those pleaoant farms, and the farmers for ever departed ! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, aud sprinkle them far o'er the ocean Nought but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand Pr^. I o Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient. Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion. List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest ; Li<3t to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. PAKT THE FIRST. In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 20 Distant, secluded, still, the little village of OranJ-Pr«^ Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Givmg the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labour incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the floodgates 25 Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain, aad away to the northward Blomidon rose, and -he forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their teats, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 30 Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. There, in the midst of its farms reposed the Acadia.n village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables pro- jecting. 35 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 c ips and in kirtles Scarlet and blue aud green, with distafl^s i^pinning the golden 40 Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles mthin-doors Mingled their 30uud with tha M'hir of the wheels aud the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children EVANGELINE. 35 20 25 pro- 35 Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. Kfcveiend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, 45 Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the labourers home from the field, and 8er<>*iely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfiy Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village (Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, 50 Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together in love the i simple Acadian farmers, — Dvelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the voice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; 55 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 Basi;^ of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pr6, Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his household, 6() Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and stately m form was the man of seventy winters ; Hearty and hale was he, aa oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak- leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 65 Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way-side, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shades 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. 70 Fa-irer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled v. ith holy sounds tho air, as the priest ■w'ith his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, aiid scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal. Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle oC blue, and the ear-rings, 76 Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom. Handed down from mother to child, through long generations But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beyuty — Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confefsion, Homeward serenely she walked with (^od's bened'ction upon her. 80 36 BVANQKLINB. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a footpath 85 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 road-side. 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- groMm 90 Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough far the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the bams and the farmyard ; There siood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows ; There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio. Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame 95 Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. Bursting with hay were the bams, themselves a village. In each one Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase, Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn -loft. There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmatei 100 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 6rand-Pr6 lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 105 Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended. And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps. Knew i\ot which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron; 110 Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village. Bolder gr^iv, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, 115 Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all mein. For since the birth of time, throughout all agea and nations, I KYANOELINE. 37 IC. t. h. 85 I moss- 90 md the md the eraglio, ue 95 h one I 100 r6 105 lentl i; 110 Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the peopl a. Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 120 Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain- song. But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 125 Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice^ 130 Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows. And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes. Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, Down the hill-side bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. 135 Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nest on the rafters. Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings ; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. 140 He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning. Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. " Sunshine of St. Eulalie " was she called ; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples } 145 She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 115 Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, 150 Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 38 KVANGRLINE. Harvests were gathered in ; and wil'"«">oe » And w.th . coal from the embeX 1^^^? "■" """«'" Wm. 2,5 W? ♦^■. <''"?«'•«'"•'« mouth with thl- '^ *' *'■«>■'• anchor. Then made answer the farmer I'-Tk ""* '^"P''" BnngtheM,hipatoour,hore8" P u •" '"""^ '"^ndlier puroo.. By the untimely rains orttteli^trh''" ^™'" » ^nS Many already have fled to the fore^ 1h rL' '""' ^'"* ^y^- ' Then with a pleaeant smile mad» ""^ EVANGELINE. 41 kle 225 B ■ahes." th, 230 ( 3." , 235 d:- >rs, I us. be 240 •86 245 iren." Iimith, 250 the 1255 teo Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking tlie glebe round about them, Filled the barn with hay, and the housa with food for a twelvomunth. Ren^ I^eblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkho'-n Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children ? " As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, 265 Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, And M they died on his lips the worthy notary entered. III. Bknt like a labouring oar, that toils in the surt of the ocean, Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; Shocks of yellow hairs, like the silken floss of the maize hung 270 Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. Four long years in the time of the war had he languished a captive, 275 Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion. Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlika. lie was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 280 And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses. And of the white L^tiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable. And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, 285 And of the marvellous power of four-leaved clover and horseshoes. With whatsoever *lse was writ in the lore of the village. Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith. Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, "FatLer Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village, 290 And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." Then with modest demeanour made answer the notary public,— '• Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; And what their errand may be I know not better than others. Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 295 43 FTANOELINE. Brings them here, foi wo aro at peace ; and why thnn raolpRt us ?" "God's name !" Hhouted tho hasty and Bomowh.it irasoihlo UlackHmith ; "Most we in all things look for the how and the why, and tho wherefore ? Daily injustice is done, and might is tho right ot the strongest ! " But, without heeding his warmth, continued tho notary public, — 3(H) " Man is unjust, but Goocket the notary drew hin pa{)era ami inkhom. Wrote with a stoady hand tho date and tlic age of the parties, Naming the dower of the bride Id flocks of shei^p and in cattle. 335 Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well wore completed, Ar eat seal of the law was sot like a sun on the margin. Then froiu his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table Throe times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, 340 Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed. While in silence the otiicrs sat and mused by the fireside, Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 345 f^aughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful maniBuvro, [jaughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king row, Meanwhile apart in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, . Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea and the iilvery mist of the meadows. 350 Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. 355 Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearthstone, And on the oaken stairs resounded the tiead of the farmer. Soon with a soundless step the foot of Kvange'ine followed. 360 Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness. Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes- press Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 365 Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage. Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight i u I) 44 KVANORI.INK Strt'Ainptl ihroii^h ihi< wiiitiown, aikI lighitMl the nH»iii, till the h«Rrt %f Swelled ii\u\ (ilioyctl iU powor, like i)i«* in-inuIouH ti<1«*H of th<^ orcan. Ah ! nho w.im fair, cxttTtliiig fair to hrholti, am a\\v. hIooiI with NnkiMl Hiiow whito f»'»'t on the ^liMiniii^ floor of hor ohiiinlior I liiitio h]w Avvtviivd that Itrlow, aiiioii^ tho trooH of tho orchard, Waited hn h>vor and watt^liud for tho gluain of hor lamp And her Hh:\doW. :i7ft Y(*t yrorv htr thoii^'hts of him, and At timi^s a fueling of HadnoM rjiMHnl o'or her houI, an tlur Mailing nhadc of 'ihmdH in tlio moonlight Klittnl aoroHs thi- thtorand darkcnod tho room for a moment. And jut nlio ^a/t'd from tho window h]\v Baw Hcrcncly the moon pAHn Forth from tht> folds of a iloiid, and ono Htar foUow hor footntt'pfl, 'ASO An out of Abrahant'a t'Mit young iNlimaul wandi-rud with llagar I TV. Pi.KASANTLY rose next morn tho sun on the village of OrAnd-Prd. rieAsantly gleamed in the soft, sweet nir the Haain of Minos, Where the sliips, with their wavering shadows, were riiling at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour 385 Knoeked with its hundred hands at tho golden gates of the morning. Now from the country around, from tho farms and the neighbouring hamlets, Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian pea-sants Many a glad goo«l-morrow and jocund laugh from tho young folk Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 39<) Where no path could be seen but the trark of wheels in the greensward, Group after group appeared, and joined, or jKiSHod on tho highway. Ix>ng ei-o noon, in the village, all sounds of labour were silenced. Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at the house- doors Sat in tho cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 395 Every house was an inn, where &\\ were welcomed and feasted ; For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together. All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. Yet under Benedict's roof ho8})itality seemed more abundant : For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 400 Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, aud blessed the cup as she gave it. KVANtiKlilNK. 45 (Jnd«r the open iky, in the ndoroun air of thn orchard, Hiuiding with k<)1 Thar* good lU^nediot lat, and iitnrdy Kasil tlio bltK^kHinith. Not far withdrawn from thusu, by thu cidor-pniHM and tho bittdiivet, Mi(!ha«l the fiddler was placed, with the gayoMt of huartM and of whIhI ooata. Shadow and light from th« leaves alternately played on his Mnow-whit« Hair, as it waved in the wind , and thu jolly faco of tho iiddlor 410 (llowed like a living uoal when the anhes are blown from the embora. Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant Hound of his fiddle, Tou» les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerqw^ And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the uiUMic. Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 415 Under the orohurd-trees and down the path to the meadowa : Old folk and young together, and children mingled among thcui. Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter I Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith I So passed the morning away. And lo I with a summons sonorous 420 Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged ere long waa the church with men. Without, in the ohurch« yard. Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the head- stones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guard from the shipSi and marching proudly among ' )l them 425 Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangour Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from coiling and casement, — Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar. 4.30 Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. •* You are convened this day," he said, " by his Majesty's orders. Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kind- ness, Let your own hearts reply 1 To my natural make and my temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grevious. 435 Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; 46 EVANOEUNE. Ih Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds. Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there • Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 440 Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is his Majesty's pleasure I " As, when the air in serene in the sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's com in the field and shatters his windows, Hidii.g the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house- roofs, 445 Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their inclosures ; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, And by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway. 450 Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations Rang through the house of prayer , and high o'er the heads of the others Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith. As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted, 455 " Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have awom 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. f In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention. 460 Lo 1 the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people. Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful 465 Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. ** What is this that ye do, my children ? what madness has seized you ? Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught you, Not in word alone; but in deed, to love one another I Ii this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and {Hriva- tionsT 470 EVANGELINE. 47 llav« you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? 'I'his is the house of the l*rince of Peace, and would you profane it Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you I See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! 475 • Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, * Father, forgi. e them ! ' Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the Mricked assail uis, Let us repeat it now, and say, O Father, forgive them I " Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate out- break ; 480 And they repeated his prayer, and said, ** C) Father, forgive them I ** Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded. Not with their li})s alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated, 485 Rose on the ardour 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, 490 liighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed each Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windowE. 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 ; 496 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 lields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — 500 Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience I Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the vromen. As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, Urged by their household cares, and the wewry feet of their children. 506 i? 48 EVANOELINB. f ,' li III 1' Down tank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vaponra Veiled the liglit uf his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows 610 Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion, " Gabriel ! " cried she aloud Mrith tremulous voice ; but no answer Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted, 616 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 uight she heard the whispering rain fall Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder 520 Told her that (jod was in heaven, and governed tho world he created ! Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven ; S<>othed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. FouE times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 525 Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and m mful procession. Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms thf; Acadian women, Driving in ponderous W5iins their household goods to the sea-shore, Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, Ere they were shut Irom sight by the winding road and the wood- land. 630 Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and tkzct on the sea- beach Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply ; 635 All day long the wains came labQuring down from the village. Late in the &.fternooi:, when the sun was near to his setting, Echoing far o'er the lields came the roll of drums from the churchyard EVANGELINE. 49 Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church> doors Opened, and forth came the gnard, and marching in gloomy pro- cession 540 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 wea^y and wayworn, So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters, 545 Foremost the young men came ; and raising together their voices, Sang they with tremulous lips a cha.:t of tha Ca^tholic Missions : — "Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain ! Fill our hearts this day with strength and submip.sion and patience ! " Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the way-side, * 5!H) Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith. Like voices of spirits departed. Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence. Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,— Calmly and saxUy waited, until the procession approached her, 555 And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him. Clasped, 'ihe his hands, and laid her head on his shoulders, and whispered, — " Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another, Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!" 500 Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect 1 GU>ne was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from hia eye, and his footstep Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in hi) bosom. But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, 565 Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husband<}, and mothers, too late, saw their children 570 .'.I :'i :l 'i^ 60 RVANQELINE. Loft on the land, extending their arms, with wihlost entreaties. So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair ou 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 570 Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the waggons. Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle. All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 580 Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing oceaii, Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pas- tures ; 585 Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their udders ; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm- yard, - Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus sounded, Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. 690 '.r I 1 But on the siiores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled. Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered. Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. Onward from tire to tire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, 695 Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering. Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, 600 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 flre-light. " Benedicite !" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 605 More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents EYANOBLINE. 61 Faltered and panned on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, Hnshcd by the scene he beholds, and the awful iiresence of aorrow. Silently, therefore, lit laid his hand on the head of the maiden, Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars that above them 610 Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, 615 Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village. Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the road- stead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. 620 Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting. Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on ship- board. Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 625 " Wo shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Prd I** Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farmyards. Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encamp- ments 630 Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, When the wild horses afi'righted sweop by with the speed of the whirl- wind, Or the loud-bellowing herds of bufialoes rush to the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses Broke through their folds and their fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. 635 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, 1 i I 1 I 1 52 BVANOELINB. Lo I from his seat hu had fallen, and stretched abroad on the aea-shore Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 640 Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and Hie maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 645 li^aces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her ; Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her. And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 650 Then a familiar voice slie heard, as it said to the people, — ** Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea- 655 side, Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pr6. And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 670 'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean. With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbour, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. 675 t|:i KVANUELINE. 68 PART THE SECOND. I. Makt a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand- Pr4, When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, Exile without an end, and without an example in story. Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 5 Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the north-east Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the banks of Newfoundland. Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to cityi From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, — From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters 10 Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean. Deep in their sands to bury the scattere^^ bones of the mammoth. Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken, Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. Written their history stands en tablets of stone in the churchyards. 15 Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently su£fering all things. Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended. Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, 20 Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned. As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by Gamp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; At if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 25 Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the East again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, She would commence again her endless search and endeavour ; 30 Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tomb- stones, Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 54 EVANGELINE. 1! ; ( 15'' 1^ '':i Sometimes a mmour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, Came with iti airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 35 Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. "Gabriel liajeunesse ! " said others ; " O, yes ! we have seen him. Ho was with Basil tho blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies ; Coureurs-dea-Boia are they, and famous hunters and trappers." 40 ** Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; ** 0, yes ! we have seen him. He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." Then would they say, — "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer ? Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? 45 Here is Baptiste Lcblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee Many a tedious yer«i ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catharine's tresses. " \hen would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, — **I cannot ! Whither my heart has f'.one, there follows my hand, and not else- where. 60 For when the heart goes beforo, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, Said, with a smile, — ** daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within thee! Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 55 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 labour ; accomplish thy work of affection ! Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 60 Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made godlike, Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendcrec' more worthy of heaven!" Cheered by the Tood man's won.j, E'^^angelino laboured and waited. Still in her heart shfl heard ohe funeral dirge of the ocean. But with its sound there was mingled a voiae that whispered, •' Despair not ! " 66 Thus did that poor soul wanc^er in want and cheerless discomfort, Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. Let m« essay, Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; EVANOELINB. 55 But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : 70 Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only ; Then drawing neare.: its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. 76 11. It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen, It was a band of exiles : a raft as it were, from the shipwrecked 80 Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together. Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune ; Men and women and children, .ho, guided by hope or by hearsay, Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 85 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. Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, whore plume-like 90 Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin. Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 96 Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dovecots. They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer. Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 100 They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, Soon were lost in a maze of slugglish and devious waters. Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid air 105 Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. 56 EVANGELINE. Death-like the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons Home to their roostn in the oedar-trees retuniing at sunset, Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac !~ughter. Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water 1 10 Gleamed en the columns of oypresR and cedar sustaining the arches, Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a rain. Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them ; And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, — Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. 116 As the tramp of a horse's huof on the turf of the prairies. Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 120 Floated before her, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her. And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. M lil Fi At Fri Nc liiit h '' Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oars- men, 125 And, as a sigual sound, if others like them peradventure Sailed tm those gloomy and midnight streams, b' ew a blast on his bugle. Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors loafy the blast rang. Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirxx ^ to the music, 130 Multitudinous enhoes awoke and died in the distance. Over the watery iloor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; But not a voice replied ; no answer came fruni the darkness ; And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the mid- night, 135 Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. And through the night were heard the mysterious sound(< of the desert, Far oflF, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest, Mixed wi^.i the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alli- gator. 140 Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades ; and before th«ra ITANOBLIMB. 57 lifty, in ih« golden ran, th« lakes of the Atchafal»ya. Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations Made by the passing oars, and, lesplendent in beauty, the lotus Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 146 Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, And with the heat of noon ; and numberless sylvan islands,' Fragrant and thickly embowered vrith blossoming hedges of roses. Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. 160 Und«r the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the greensward. Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape- vine 166 Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending. Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven 160 lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands. Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. 165 At the helm sat a yonth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. Qabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 170 Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island. But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows, And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers ; Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. 175 Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance. As from a niagic tr^ce the sleepers awoke, and the maiden EVANGELINE. H Sftid with a sigh to the friendly priest,—'* Father Felician I Something aayi in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 180 Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spilit ? " Then, with a blush, she added, — " Alas for ray credulous fancy ! Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered — 185 '* Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me without meaning. Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the southward, 190 On the banks of the Tuche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. There the long*wandering bride shall be given again to ^ jr 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 185 Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. They who dwell ther« have named it the Eden of Louisiana." And with these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey. Softly the evening oame. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape ; 200 Twinkling vapours arose ; and sky and water and forest Seemed idl on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. 205 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 neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers. Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delicious music, 210 That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes, Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, 215 As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops ,ul KVANQKLINB. 69 Shakos down tht rattling rain in a oryHtal shower on the branches. With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, Slowly they entereil the Tdche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, 220 Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring dwelling ; — Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. hl Nkar to the bank of the river, o'ershado^ired by oaks, from whose branches Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, 226 Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully Htted together. Large and low was the roof ; and on slender columns supported, 230 Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda. Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol. Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 235 Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine Ran near the tops of the tress , but the house itself was in a shadow, And from its chimney-top, asceii^ing and slowly expanding Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway 240 Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending, Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics. Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. 245 Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups. Sat a herdsman arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the *u< dly look of its master. 250 Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshness 60 BVANOELINE. k. U That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 255 Wildly and sweet and far, through the still dump air of the evening. Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 260 Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; When they beheld his face, they recognised Basil the blacksmith. 265 Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. There in an arbour of roses, with endless question and answer Gave they vert to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces. Laughing and weeping by t.. .-ns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark doubts and mis- givings 270 Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, somewhat embarrased, Broke the silence and said, — " If you came by the Atchafalaya, Hov/ have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous ? " Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, — 275 *' Gone ? is Gabriel gone ? " and, concealing her face on his shoulder, All her overburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — " Be of Good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. Foolish boy 1 he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. 280 Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever. Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 285 Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent hun Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugitive lover ; 290 ?1 "a < ill I'll, EVANGELINE. 61 He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the moining We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river. Borne aloft on his comrades* arms, came Michael the fiddler. ' 295 Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. Far renowned was he for his silver lock^ and his fiddle. " Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian minstrel I" As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straightway 300 Father Felican advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured. Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips. Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters, Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith, 305 All his domains and his herds, and his patiiarchal demeanour ; Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate. And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them ; Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. Thus they ascended the steps, and crossing the airy veranda, 310 Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. All WM silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver. Fair rose the dewy moon and the mynad stars ; but within doors, 315 Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamp- light. Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they list- ened ;— . 320 ** Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless and homeless. Welcome on^. ^ more to a home, that is better perchance than the old onti 1 Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; ti EVANGELINE. I ! i *3 *■ it* '.if ~i - i Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of tl»c farmer. Smoothly thu ploughshare runs through the soil as a keel through the water. 326 All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass grows More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies ; Here, too, lands may be h tl for the asking, and foresto of timber With a few blo^s of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 890 After your houses are built, and your tields are yellow with harvests, No King George of England shall drive you away from your home- steads, Bumiug your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle." Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table, 335 So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded, Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuL' half-way to his nostrils. But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer : — " Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever I For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, 340 Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell I " Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters. Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman. 345 Merry the meeting was of ar.jient comrades and neighbours : Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who before were as strangers. Meeting in exile, became straiglitway as friends to each other, Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding 350 From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle. Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted. All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. 355 Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall the priest and the herds- man Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her T] fJ NJ pj BVANGELINB. 6S 1 olden mcmorieB rone, and loud in the midst of the music Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 3G0 Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of Ihe forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches s, tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. 365 Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odours, that were their prayers and con> fessions Unto the night, aa it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night- dews. Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moon- Ught 370 Seemed to inundate her soul Mritb indefinable longings. As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of tihe oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 375 Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel ai d worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple. As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin." And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, 380 Wandered alone, and she cried, — ** O Gabriel ! O my beloved I Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! 385 Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour. Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers ! When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoor«irill sounded Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboaring thickets, 390 Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "Patience I" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darknesi ; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow I " 64 RVANORLINB. r; Bright roBe the sun next day ; and all the fiowors of the garden Hathud )\\» Hhiniiig feet with thoir tears, and anointed his tresses 306 With the dulioioiiH halm that they hore iu their vases of crystal. " Farewell 1 " said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold ; See that you bring us the Trodigrl Sou fr«>in his fasting and famine, And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." "Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil des- oendod 400 Down to the river's brink, whero the boatmen already were wait- ing. Thus beginning tr-rir journey with morning, and sunshine, and glad* ness, Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, 405 Found they trace of his course, in lake, or forest, or river ; Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and uncertain Rumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country ; Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrolons land- lord 410 That on the day before, with horses, and guides, and companions^ Gaoriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. IV Far in the West there lies a desei!; land, where the mountains Lift, through per" stual sn jws, their lofty and luminous summits. Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gate- way 416 Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrai:t's waggon. Westward the Oregon flow6, and the Walleway and the Owyhee, Eastward, with devious-course, among the Wind-river Mountaius, Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps tho Nebraska ; And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierrtA, 420 Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert. Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies. Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, 426 EVANOKLINE. 65 Urif^ht v/ith luxuriant olusteni of rotes anil purplo amorphas. Over tht^in wamlur the buffalo hurilH, and tho elk and the roebuck ; Over them zander the wolvus, and hords of riderhsHR horses ; Fires that blast and blight, and wiiitls that are weary with travel ; Over them wandered the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, 430 Staining the desert with blood ; and above thoir terrible war-trails Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle. By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. Here and there rise smoke from the camps of these savage maraudera 43r> Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers; And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert. Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side ; And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, Like the protecting hand of Qod inverted above them. 440 Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trap|)ers behind him. Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp- fire 445 Rise in the "morning air from the distant plain ; bat at nightfall, When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana Showfid them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. 460 Once, as they sat by thr;ir evening fire, there silently entered Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people. From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Gamanchee, 455 Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been mur- dered. Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 66 EVANGELINE. PI t' •' ^^ I Mi? 465 On the buffalo meat and the venison cooked on the embers. But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, 460 Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, Stretched themselves on i.he ground, and slept where the quivering fire- Ught Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets, Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated Slowly, with soft, low vuice, and the charm of her Indian accent. All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion. Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, She in return related her love and all its disasters. Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, &p.d 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 Mowis ; Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, Fading and n\elting away and dissolving into the sunshine. Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phan 470 the 475 torn. 480 the That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of twilight, Breathed like the evening wind, and whiskered love to tha maiden. Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 485 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 tho tups of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendour Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and tilling the wood- land. 490 With a deliciocs sound the brook rushed by, and the branches Sw Fil Sul As It See Thi EVANGELINE. 67 , 460 md the ing fire- m their t, 465 sea. d. n, er, 470 B of the D, 475 irest. jtation, |a phan- 480 of the len. 485 Lantress. wood- 490 Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. Filled with the thoughts of love was Evaiigeliiio's heart, but a secret, Subtle senne crept in of pain aud indeHnite terror, As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swaHow. 495 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. And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom ha I vanished. Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee 500 Said, as they journeyed along, — "On the western slope of these mountains Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; Loud laugh their hearts vrith joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him." Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, — 505 " Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " Tl lither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the inountains, Jist as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of vo< jn. And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. 510 Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village. Knelt the Black Robe chief with his childr;>n. A crucifix fastened High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines, Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 515 Of its atrial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching. Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 520 Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower. Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression. Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, And with words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam. 525 There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear m 68 KVANO KLINE. lill ■ K, Hi If* :•; i!,' Foasted, and nlaked their thirst fnnn the water-gourd of (he teacher. Soon was Hicir story t' Id ; "Mid thp [iriest with solemnity answered ; — " Not six suns have risen and set sinco ( Jabricl, seated ()n this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 530 Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his journey ! " Soft was the voice of the priest, and '- spake with an ajoen! of kind- ness; But on Evangeline's hoart fell his w jrd; as in winter tl\e snow-flakes Fall into some lone nest from which ti > bir^ have depa^*ted. " Far to the North he ha^ gone," ontii ued the priest; "but in autumn, 535 Whor the chase is done, will return again to the Mission." Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, — ** Let me remain with thee, for n^y soul is sad and afflicted." So seemed it wise and well nnl -y all ; and betimes on the morrow, Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and compan- ions, 540 Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. Slowly, slowly, slowly the davn succeeded each other, — Days and weeks arid months ; ar i the fields of maize that were springing Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving before her, Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming 545 Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. 550 •* Patience I " the priest would say ; ** have faith, and thy prayer will be answered ! Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet ; i.t is the compass- flower, that the finger of God has suspended Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveller's journey 655 Over the sea-like, pathless limitless, waste of the desert. Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion. Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, But they beguile as, and lead us astray, and their odour is deadly. SVANQKLINK. ( )nly this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter (Vowu UB with asphodel flowers, that are wet with nepenthe." the A60 dews of So came the autumn, and passed, aud the winter,— yet Gabriel oame not ; Blossomed the opening spring, and tl', ^ ites of the robin and blue-bird iSoundcd sweet upon wold and in wooc. vet Gabriel came not. But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was wafted 068 Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom, Far to the north and east, it is said, in the Michigan forests, ( tabriel had his Imlgc by the banks of the Saginaw river. And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline wont from the Mission. 670 When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches. She had attainr a^ ^M\gth the depths of the Michigan forests, Found she thr itun^ a lodge deserted and fallen to ruin. Thus did .-e lo g sad years glide on, and in seasons and places Divers and dist&ut iar was seen the wandering maiden : — 675 Now in th(; i^t. of grace of the meek Moravian Missions, Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army. Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. Fair was she and young, wLsn in hope began the long journey ; 580 Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, Ix;aving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. Then there appeared and sx)read faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead, I )awn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, 585 As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. ▼. In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's i(r»i«rs (Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle. Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he fousded. There all the air is baln\, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, 590 And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest. As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose liaunts they moleste 1 70 EVANOELINR. I Hi ■Ml ' "i There from the trouhletl hoa had Kvan^clino landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Ponn a home and a country. There old Ren6 Leblanc had died ; and when ho departed, 595 Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendanta. Something at least there wiih in the friendly titreets of the city, Something that Bpake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger ; And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 600 Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour, Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her foot- steps. As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 605 Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us. Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the dis- tance. 610 Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. Into her thoughts of him timo entered not, for it was not. Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but trans- figured ; 615 He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; Patience and abnegation of self, an^l devotion to others, This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices. Suffered no waste nor loss, though Hlling the air with aroma. 620 Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, w^ith reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; fret^uenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 625 Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated l^oudy through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, H D PI M EVANORLINB. 71 < ii\ High at nome lonely window he saw the light of hnr tuper. Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, a« slow throagh the ■nburba 630 Plodded the German fanner, with flowers and fruits for the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning homo from its watohings. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, Presaged by wondrous si^ns, and mostly by Hocks of wild pigeons. Darkening the sun in their flight, with nought in their craws t)ut an acorn. 635 And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin. Spread to a brackish-lake, the silver stream of existence. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor; 640 But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — Only, alas ! the poor, who hfd neither friends nor attendants. Crept away to die in the i^mshouse, home of the homeless. Then in the suburb* it stood, in the midst of* meadows and wood* lands ; — Now the city surronn'Is it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket 645 Meek, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to echo Softly the words of the Lord :— ** The poor ye always have with you." Thither, by night and by day, came the sister of mercy. The dying Ix)oked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, 650 Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles. Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial. Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. Thus, on a Sabbath mom, through the streets deserted and silent 655 Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden ; And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, That the dying once more might rejoice iu their fragrance and beauty. Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind, 600 Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, 72 RVANQEMNB. While intermingled with these, aorou the mcatlowi were wafted 8ounda of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaoo Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hoar on her spirit ; Something within her said, — " At length thy trials are ended ; " 666 And, with light in her looks, she entered the chamliers of sickness. Noiselessly moved about the assiduous careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of their dead, and concealing their faces. Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts uf snuw by the road- side. 670 Many a languid head, uprained as Evangeline entered. Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence Pell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how death, the consoler, La3ring hi" hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. 675 Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; Vacant their places weif^, or filled already by strangers. ij! 1*1 II I Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and forgotten, the tlowerets dropped from her fingers, 680 And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish. That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples ; 685 But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; So are wont to be changed the faces of those that are dying. Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever. As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, 690 That the Angel of D?ath might see the sign, and pass over. Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darknoss, Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 695 Heard he chat cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered » gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like. KVANOBUNB. 73 *' ftahriel ! my beloved I " and died away into tilenoe. llien be bebeld, in a dream, once more tbo borne of bit obildbood; Oreen Acadian meadows, witb sylvan rivers among tbem, 700 Villagt, and mountain, and woodland ; and, walking under their shadow, As in th« days of ber youtb, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears oame into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelide, Vanisbe