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Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. These too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams Illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre fllmte A des taux de reduction diff^rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand ^viur Atre reproduit en un seul ciich6, il est filmA A partir de Tangle supArleur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'Images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants lliustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 ! SELECT POEMS. 0, v> z o X i 4) ^ cc r "5 - 3 t ^1 SELECT POEMS BEING THE * < LITERATURE PRESCRIBED FOR THE JUNIOR MATRICULA- TION AND JUNIOR LEAVING EXAMINATIONS, 1900. EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND AN APPENDIX BY J. MARSHALL, M.A. English Master Kingston Collegiate Institute, AND O. J. STEVENSON, M.A. English Master St. Thomas Collegiate Institute. TORONTO : THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED. 1899. r •»l|Jl.'"^WM LP, f'/^ 6/0/ M 35 / J oo ^"**eifhtZ?""f '%^°' "' '*■' '*""■'""'"' °' ^'^"'«*'*' '" *»^« y«" °ne thousand eight hunclre,! an.l «,nety-„i„e. by T.,k Co,.,., Cmrk Comi-anv. L.m.tkd, ToroiUo Ontario, „i the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. ' NOTE. A few words may be needed to explain the appearance in this volume of biographical and other notes on ColeriT^ge. When the present edition was undertaken, Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Youth and Age were part of the work prescribed for Junior Matriculation and Jimior Leaving for 1900. In May came the decision of the Senate of Toronto University to drop Coleridge. As the book was intended for use in other Provinces, as well as in Ontario, the publishers de* cided to include in the volume the Coleridge selections, together with the annotations which the editors had com- pleted when the Senate's order was issued. The notes on Coleridge follow those on Longfellow and Wordsworth, but to prevent misunderstanding on the part of the Ontario student, the text of The Ancient Mariner and Youth and Age appears in the Appendix. lo^i^'SH- CONTENTS. Introduction : The Study of Poetry Selections : ■ Evangeline A Psalm of Life The Wreck of the Hesperus The Day is Done - The Old Clock on the Stairs The Fire of Driftwood - Resignation - The Warden of the Cinque Ports Excelsior The Bridge - A Gleam of Sunshine - The Education of Nature She was a Phantom of Deligl A Lesson To the Skylark The Green Linnet - To the Cuckoo To the Daisy To a Distant Friend England and Switzerland London, 1802 Upon Westminster Bridge The Inner Vision - London, September, 1802 To Sleep Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge Notes on Longfellow : Literature in America - Biography .... Chronological List of Chief Works Characteristics of the Man - Characteristics of his Poetry - PAOB ix Lonfjfellow I 68 71 73 75 77 79 80 82 84 Wordnworth 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 -• 95 95 96 97 97 98 98 99 '01 104 108 108 113 VI CONTENTS. Evangeline A Psalm of Life - The Wreck of the Hesperus The Day is Done The 01(1 Clock on the Staiis The Fire ni Driftwood - Resignation The Warden of the Cinque Ports Excelsior The Bridge - A Gleam of Sunshine Notes on Wordsworth : The Romantic Movement in English Literatun Biography .... Characteristics of the Man Characteristics of His Poetry The Education of Nature She was a Phantom of Delight A Lesson .... To the Skylark The Green Linnet - To the Cuckoo To the Daisy .... To a Distant Friend England and Switzerland London, 1802 Upon Westminster Bridge The Inner Vision - London, September, 1802 To Sleep .... Within King's College Chapel, ( Cambridge Notes on Colertuue : Biography Ancient Mariner Youth and Age Poetic Form : Versilication English Metres PAOB 114 141 144 146 147 U9 152 154 , 156 158 160 162 167 ^ '75 ''*» 17«; M 181 1 184 186 ■1 188 190 191 195 197 197 198 200 202 204 206 205 207 211 226 230 234 CONTENTS. Vll Classification according to Thought Relation of Form to Thought - Appendix : Selections for Sight Reading— 1. The Ancient Mariner 2. Youth and Age 3. Michael - 4. The Solitary Reaper 5. Village Preacher 6. Matilda and Redmond (Rokeby) 7. Ellen Douglas (Lady of the Lake) 8. To a Mountain Daisy 9. Ode to a Nightingale 10. Sonnet xcviii 11. To a Skylark - 12. Selection from Castle of Indolence 13. To the Muses - 14. Days 15. Night 16. Ultima Thule - 17. To the Cuckoo - 18. Death the Leveller - 19. Strange Fits of Passion 20. She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways 21. A Slumber did n.y Spirit Seal 22. I Travelled Among Unknown Men PAOB 238 ' 240 ■ Coleridge II Wordsworth II Goldsmith Scott Burns Keats Shakespeare Wordsworth Thompson W. Blake Emers(m Whitman Lowjfellow Logan Shirley Wordsworth ii (I II ^l' INTRODUCTION. I.— WHAT IS rOETKY? The Scientific temper of our time. — The temper of our time is essentially scientific. The iliscoveries of a host of investigators have not only passed into the popular mind, but changed its whole attitude. Where our fathers believed, we ask for cause or reason ; for what they took on trust, we demand the why and the wherefore. There is nothing, we feel, which dotis not admit of explanation if investigation could only come at it. Exceptions may be pointed out which contradict accepted theories. Such oases necessitate the cori'ectiou bu'' not the abandon- ment of our idea of law. As Professor Caird has said: "'Under the acknowledged reign of law the world is a connected drama, in which there is no place for episodes. " To the men oi science we owe a debt of gratitude for their contributions to greater clearness and sanity, for the suppression of many superstitions which impeded the progress of our predecessors, and for re-calling men from the pursuit o' meta- physical Will-o'-the-wisps and theological Jack-o'-lanterns to the firm and certain path of experience. The appai ent opposition of Science and Poetry. — A lingering super- stition which science, it would seem, is destined to extirpate, is the love of poetry. In his Essay on Milton, Macaulay says : '* We think that as civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines. ... In proportion as men know more and think more, they look less at indi- viduals and more at classes. They therefore make better theories and worse poems. They may be better able to analj'ze human nature than their predecessors. But analysis is not the business of the poet. His office is to portray, not to dissect. In an enlightened age there will be much intelligence, much science, much philosophy, abundance of wit and eloquence, abundance of verses, and even of good ones — but little poetry." A more recent writer — Max Nordau — in his book entitled Degenera- tion, speaks thus contemptuously of the prospect of art: "As to the future of art and literature, with which these inquiries are chiefly concerned, that can be predicted with tolerable clearness. I resist the temptation of looking into too remote a future. Otherwise I should ix INTRODUCTION. fi • [ perhaps prove, or at least show as very probable, that in the mental life of centuries far ahead of ns, art and pot-try will occupy but a very insignificant place. Psychology teaches us that the course of develop- niont is from instinct t) knowledge, from emotion t;) judgment, from rambling to regulate*! association of ideas. Attention replaces fugitive ideation ; will, guided by reason, replaces caprice. Observation then triumphs ever more and more over imagination, and artistic symbolism, i.e., the introduction of erroneous personal interpretations of the universe, is more and more driven back by an understanding of the laws of nature. On the other hand, the march hitherto followed by civili- zation gives us an idea of the fate which may be reserved for art and poetry in a very distant future. That which originally was the most important occupation of men of full mental development, of the maturest, best and wisest members of society, becomes little by little a subordinate pastime, and finally a child's amusement. Dancing was formerly an extremely important aflair. It was performed on certain grand occasions as a state function of the first order, with solemn cere- monies, after sacrifices and invocations to the gods by the leading warriors of the tribe. To-day it is no more than a fleeting pastime for women and youths, and later on its last at ivistic survival will be the dancing of children. The fable and the fairy tale were once the highest productions of the human mind. In them the most hidden wisdom of the tribe, and its most precious traditions, were expressed. To-day they represent a species of literature only cultivated for the nursery. The verse which by rhythm, figurative expression and rhyme trebly betrays its origin in the stimulations of rhythmically functioning subordinate organs, in association of ideas working according to external similitudes, and in that working according to consonance, was originally the only form of literature. To-day it is only employed for purely emotional portrayal ; for all other purposes it has been conquered by prose, and indeed has almost passed into the condition of an atavistic language. Under our very eyes the novel is being increasingly degraded, serious and highly cultivated men scarcely deeming it worthy vi attention, and it appeals more and more exclusively to the young and to women. From all these examples it is fair to conclude that after some centuries, art and poetry will have become pure atavisms, and will no longer be cultivated except by the more emotional portion of humanity — by women, by the young, perhaps even by children." It is true that at the present moment poetry seems extinct, but is this more than a temporary eclipse ? Does it belong to the infancy of the WHAT IS POETRY? XI race ? Is it an atavistic survival, an anachronism in our modern world ? Must it be relegated to the nursery like the fable and the fairy tale and finally disappear like many another thing once beautiful, now antiquated and obsolescent? Has the king«lom of science come and the kingdom ()f imagination passed away? Will all color be merged in "the drab of the earnest, prosaic, practical, austerely literal future ? " Illustration of the difference between Science and Poetry.— In Literature ami Doyma, Matthew Arnold defines religion as ' morality touched by emotion " and illustrates the distinction as follows : • * ' By the dispensation of Providence to mankind,' says Quintilian, 'goodness gives men most satisfaction.' That is morality. 'The path of the just is as the shining light which shineth more and more unto the per- fect day.' That is morality touched with emotion, or religion. ' Hold off from sensuality,' says Cicero, 'for if you have given yourself up to it, you will find yourself unable to think of anything else.' That is morality, 'Blessed are the pure in heart,' says Jesus Christ, 'for they shall see God.' That is religion. ' We all want to live honestly, but cannot,' says the Greek maxim-maker. That is morality. 'O wretched man, who shall deliver me from the body of this death,' says St. Paul. That is religion. ' W^ould thou wert of as good conversation in deed as in word ' is morality. ' Not every one that sayeth unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my father which is in heaven ' is religion. ' Live as you were meant to live ' is morality. ' Lay hold of eternal life ' is religion. "Or we may take the contrast within the bounds of the Bible itself. 'Love not sleep, lest thou come to poverty,' is morality; but 'My meat is to do the will of him that sent me and to finish his M'ork ' is religion. Or we may even observe a third stage between these two stages, which shows to us the transition from the one to the other. ' If thou givtst thy suUi the desires that please her, she will make thee a laughingstock to thine enemies.' That is morality. 'He that resisteth pleasure crowneth his life.' That is morality with the tone heightened, passing or trying to pass into religion. ' Flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God.' There the passage is made and we have religion." Adopting Arnold's simple and effective method, we may define poetry as thought, science, touched by emotion, and illustrate the difference as follows : — The geographer calls the earth an oblate spheroid. That is science. Wordsworth calls it "the mighty mother of mankind." That is poetry. tmmm Xll INTRODUCTION. "The sum total of matter in the universe is a constant quantity," is science. The one remains, the many change and pass ; ^ Heaven's li|(ht for ever shines, earth's shadows fly, is poetry. "The slightest displacement of matter on the surface of the earth involves, on tlie theory of gravitation, a readjustment of forces through- out tlie solar system, " is science. There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest, But in his motion like an augel siuga, Still quiring to the young-eyed chcrubins, is poetry. "The energy of the univeise is a constant quantity," is science. Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, And the most ancient heavens Through thee are fresh and strong, is poetry. "Change of season, and, consequently, vegetation, are owing to the earth's annual movement about tlie sun, combined with her inclination to the plane of lier orbit," is science. Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragance in thy footing treads, is poetry. " The earth was originally cast forth from the sun, a glowing mass nnfit for human or other liabitation. Cooling down, it at length reached a condition when human beings could api^ear, developed from lower organisms. The cooling process is still going on and must ultimately make the planet again unlit for human beings. The race will then disappear, the earth itself will drop into the sun or be otherwise broken up, to be again cast forth and re-embodied in new forms." That is prose. And like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towera and gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples and the great globe itself, Yea all which it inherit shall dissolve. And like this insubstantial pager.nt faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stufif As dreams are made of ; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep That is poetry. "With what tenderly reminiscent feelings two i>ld school-fellows meet after years of separation," is prose. WHAT 18 poetry] XIU We twa hae paidl't in the burn, From morning sun till dine, , But oceans braid between us raired, Sin' Auld Lan^ Syne, is poetry. " Had they never met they wouUl have escaped much sorrow and anguish, but their latent possibihties of deepest affection would have remained dormant," is prose. Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. The thought has been partially suffused and illuminated with emotion. Had we never loved so blindly. Had we never loved so kindly, Never met and never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Here the piercing plaintiveness of the tone will not let us forget either the lovers' raptures, or the sadness of their separation. That is poetry. "Honesty is the best policy," is prose almost repellant in its bald Philistinism. "There is a stream of tendency by which all things fulfil the law of their being ; " in this we have a perceptible heighten- ing of the tone. " There is a moral order of the universe which it is a man's happiness to go along with, and his misery to go counter to." There is here a further access of emotion, an additional heightening of the tone, but the passage still falls short of genuine poetry. " Clouds and darkness are round about him ; righteousness and judgment are the habitations of his seat." The divine afflatus has breathed upon it, the passage has been made and we have poetry. " It is a matter of common observation that mental energy is not a fixed quantity but varies from day to day, even from hour to hour," is a plain statement of fact. "Facilities and felicities whence do they come ; suggestions and stimulations whither do they tend ? " The tone is heightened, passing or trying to pass into poetry : The awful shadow of some unseen power Floats though unseen among us ; visiting This various world with as inconstant wing A9 summer winds that creep from flower to flower. Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower. It visits with inconstant glance Each human heart and countenance ; Like hues and harmonies of evening, Like clouds in starlight widely spread, Like memory of music fled. Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mjstery. There the passage has been made an 1 we have poetry. XIV INTRODUCTION. \m I Definil'on of Poetry. — Poetry is thus the enlistment of the emo- tions in tlie service of truth. It is not elegant trifling, nor is its object the production of pleasure. When a thought has caught the poet's fancy, and has been dwelt upon in liis mind — and oidy a Morthy thought can thus compel attention — until its full signiiicance is revealed, and there has clustered about it a wealth of happy fancy and apt illustra- tion, and when the thought thus touched, beautiBed and made effective by emotion, has been uttered with power to excite like emotion in reader or hearer, we have poetry. Tliis power of staying the mind upon a thought till what at first appeared trivial or commonplace is revealed in a novel and interesting light, belongs in greater or less degree to all men. If it were otherwise, the enjoyment of poetry would be limited to its producers. So rare a gift, however, is a high degree of the power, that in the whole histoiy of world literature, scarcely a dozen persons have displayed it pre-eminently and with these few, so incalculable were the moments of inspirp.oion that the imagination of all peoples has ascribed them to the influence of a power, a muse, or a god, outside of the poet himself. Tlie enthusiasm of the poet dififers from fanaticism as radically as does the graceful and luminous flow of his thought from the movements of the ordinary understanding. The fanatic, the man of one idea, the crank, admits the value of nothing but his own pet notion. The ideas of the average "intelligent man" are a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends, gathered without pur- pose, arranged in no order, and full of latent and undetected incon- sistencies and contradictions. From long pondering his thoughts, the poet sees their many-sidedness, their various applications, their con- nections with one another, their relative importance and the modifica- tions necessitated by changing circumstances of person, place, or time. Poetry is thus, in Shelley's fine phrase, "the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds ; " and its beauty — the subject of so much learned mystification is neither more nor less than its consummate justness, its perfect balance, its uneriing felicity, its " sweet reasonableness." It does not merely convince the intellect, but touches the heari. It procures acceptance for the otherwise bald and repellant truth, and wins a joyous obedience to the rule of life hitherto held arbitrary or irksome. What at any time we have our- selves feebly and intermittently felt of noble aspiration is here set in shining lines with perennial power of recalling those feelings so delight- ful, so elevating, but with us so evanescent. In the animation of mind, and the bracing of the will which it is thus the function of poetry to WHAT IS POETRY? XV produce, there is, of course, joy, and this is the modicum of truth in the pleasure tlicory of poetry ; but the former and not the incidental pleasure is the true end of all art. Imagination is just this power of vivid realization. It cannot, as often detined, be the picture-making faculty. That is rather an affair of memory or fancy. J Jo we not feel that Scott has sacriticed to the picturesque many of the higher and more essential qualities of poetry, and that Wordsworth, with much less conmiand of the resources which Scott employs «o abundantly, in a far truer poet? Imagination shows itself in two principal ways. Like Wordsworth, the poet may point out beauties in actual scenes and characters, which the careless eye would have never seen ; like Shakespeare, he may delight us with a world whose incidents, characters, and places even, may be wholly imaginary. Style is the individual element in poetry. All true poets possess imagination, and therefore power and charm, but these vary infinitely with the training, experience and circumstances of the poet himself. Thf^ style is thus the man — with the same sort of charm for us that an interesting personality possesses. We all know people in ordinary life of magnetic personality, as we say. In the tones of their voices, their smile, their very gestures and actions, there is something unique and exquisitely attractive. Similarly with the poets ; so finely individual- istic are their modes of iitterance that it is quite possible for the trained literary student, by certain well-marked peculiarities of expression, to tell whether a passage previously unseen is Carlyle's or Browning's or Tennyson's. It is true that this may be done quite mechanically and without any feeling for the more elusive but more valuable qualities of a poet's style. Just as many peoitle are able to ** spot " an Alma- Tadema by his marble, without any real appreciation of his power, so they are able to spot a passage from Browning or Tennyson. The ease with which the superficial manner may be parodied, while what is essential in the poet's work is entirely missed, shoM's the worthlessness of all external study of style. Time spent on niceties of diction, rhythm and imagery is time wasted if it does not bring us in contact with genius itself, and enable us to obtain the incentive and stimulus which it is the power of a great and dominant personality to impart. Poetry the complement of Science.— Poetry is not, therefore, antagonistic to science, but complementary. In Wordsworth's fine phrase it is "the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all science, the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge." Science XVI INTRODUCTION. appeals to the intellect ; i)oetry, to the reason vitalized by emotion. Science forniiilutes, poetry suggestH. Science is ahstract ; poetry, concrete. Science analyzes, poitry combi.ies. Science presents fractions ; poetry, wholes. Science deals with facts, as facts, while for poetry tiio ideal is the fact. Science bids us see, in particular things, not ideals, but merely examples of general classes. Poetry is constantly striving to give To one brief moment cftii(,'ht from fleeting time, The appropriate calm of bleut eternity ; and to get us to see and to reverence beauty and goodness, as facts of life, as truly as baseness and vulgarity. Poetry, in short, gives us more of life than prose ; gives it with less distortion, and gives it more attractively. Though the present dearth of even tenth-rate poets would seem to make for their theories, the truth, we feel, is not with Macaulay or Nordau. Scientitic advance is constant and regular. Literary revivals cannot be predicted, but return, in its own good time, poetry certainly will— changed, perhaps, in form, but with all its pristine power of bringing joy to man and calming ' ' the weary strife of frail humanity. " II. — POKTRY IN THE ScHOOLS. Our lack of culture.— The object of putting poetry on the school curriculum is that the civilization of the future may be higher than that of the present. Matthew Arnold has deplored the Englishman's inability, as compared with the German, to find enjoyment in anything but business. In an address delivered to the New England Association of Colleges and Preparatory Schools, last October, and published in the School Review for December, Professor George Harris, of the Andover Theological Seminary, made a similar comparison between the German and the American. "Think now," he said, "of the men you meet, professional and business men. . . . Few of them have acquaint- ance with literature, music or art ; their principal reading is the newspapers. . . . They nearly all talk shop— the dullest kind of talk, . . . How many men know or care anything about music. . . . In comparison with the Germans we suflfer in this respect. They have their defects and limitations, but they have aesthetic appre- ciation and enjoyment. They love good music. They are constant attendants on concerts and operas. Small towns have good orchestras that render classical compositions, which, not only to university men, but to the people generally, are a delightful and indispensable part :*i \ POETKY ly THE SCHOOLS. XVll y emotion. presents tcts, while particular Poetry is xs facts of gives us ts it more ivte poets uot with regular, ood time, h all ito. ' strife of e school ler than shman's nything ociation in the ndover jierman meet, quaint- is the ind of music. spect. appre- tistant estras men, part of life. ... A similar contrast'exista in respect to art and literature. The Germans have something wc have not. They are more aisthetic, more ideal than we. An American is a practical man ; a shrewd man ; an enterprising man. Many a German is a man of culture. . . . They have more intereats which are above tiie utilitarian." What is true of England and the United States, is far more deplorably true of Canada. As a people, our one conception of blessedness is that of making money. Impervious to ideas, in spite of our boasted modernity, — mainly imitative, by the way, of the United States, — medisevalism, economic and social, is rampant among us. With all the hard unintelligence with which even friendly foreigners have charged our race, we seem to be losing its moral earnestness, if our public life be any criterion. With little or no appreciation of literature, art or music, our spare time is given to the newspapers and the trashy magazines, dinners and suppers, whist parties and balls, the lodge and the farce or salacious play. Nor is the life of the feminine half of our people much more attractive. Practically divorced from her husband's society, through his engagements at the lodge or the club, and thrown back upon the companionship of women as badly trained as herself, the average woman occupies her leisure in gossip about her neighbors, more or less ungenerous ; in receiving and retuining the calls of a list of acquaint- ances, carefully selected with reference to their social position ; in reading the society columns of the newspapers and noting the doings of the social big ones ; in shojiping and conferences with the dressmaker ; and in fussy and unprofitable church work. It is to save the future generations from the hard unintelligence, the crude materialism, the false estimates, the conventional standards and the immense ennui of the present, that poetry is prescribed. Poetry as a Mental Discipline. — As a mere intellectual training the study of literature will compare favorably with any other subject on the school curriculum. Mathematics tends to make the mind exact. The classics, in addition, give a knowledge of human nature. Science cultivates and strengthens the powers of balancing probabilities and of observation. Literature combines with the exactness of mathematics, the observation of science and the knowledge of human nature fostered by the classics, a flexibility of intelligence not otherwise so raadily obtainable/ A pupil for example last term gave "sovereign nun" as an equivalent for " imperial votaress " in Shakespeare's "the imperial votaress passed on in maiden meditation fancy free." Is the tact that tells one that " sovereign nun " for "imperial votaress " is absurd, not ■IP T t i XVlll INTRODUCTION. worth acquiring? Might one not he a fair mathematician and not have it? WiMild not a very slight acquaintance with the way men have expressed themselves i:; literature prevent such a hhuulor ? Indeed for practical life, more than anything else are required the animation of mind, the multiplying of ideas, the promptness to connect in the thoughts one thing with another and to illustrate one thing by another, to know when an author is at his best and when he is not to be trusted, what to keep and what to reject, which it is the function of literature to give and which the man of one book or no book never obtains. Poetry as Formative of Character. — Far more import>ant however is the influence of poetry on the spirit and character of man. Familiarity witli poetry tends to make us feel that anything harsh, false, distorted or violent must be contrary to man's true life and thus makes possible a self-correction and readjustment of the highest possible value. Shelley, speaking of the influence of poetry, says : " These and corresponding conditions of being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most enlarged imagination ; and the state of mind produced by them is at war with every base desire. The enthu- siasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship, is essentially linked with such emotions, and whilst they last self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe." " Good poetry," says Matthew Arnold, "does undoubtedly tend to form the soul and character ; it tends to beget a love of beauty and truth in alliance together ; it suggests, however indirectly, high and noble principles of action, and it inspires the emotion so helpful in making principles operative." "To be incapable," says Wordsworth, " of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence for God." III. — The Teaching of Poktrv. The constant aim of the teacher of literature should be to communi- cate to his class not the bare thought, but as much as possible of the author's spirit. Any method that interferes with this is a false method. In Ontario, indeed, we have had an exaltation of method over matter, and a little siniplitication would not be out of place. Don't employ too learned a jargon. Don't talk about the "intellectual analysis," the 'spiritual interpretation,' "the intensive study of literature," and what not. Don't lose yourself and your pupils' interest at once, by too minute an examination of words and phrases ; it is the author's spirit, not his words, that you are to rest your mind upon. Teach the sub- stantial meaning of the poem, but do not give your pupils the impression. THE TKACHINO OF POETRY. XIX in and not Q way men 3r ? Indeed i animation nect in the by another, be trusted, f literature tins. nt however Familiarity e, distorted s possible a 3. Shelley, -responding f the most the state of The enthu> ally linked what it is, ^Id, "does ;o beget a however spires the iicapable," e word, is communi- ble of the e method. ;r matter, nploy too 'sis," the ire," and e, by too r's spirit, the sub- pression, i- i by laying too much stress on the central idea, that the concrete fulnesfl of the poct'd thought may be boiled down to a formula, dried, labelled and pigeon-holed. Study the order and connection of ideas, but do not set up a logical guillotine, and imagine that when you have sliced a poem up you have communicated its spirit to your pupils. The most important part of method is the teacher's own preparation. Scudder, Longfellow's biographer, tells a pretty story about the poet's Maidenhood, which well illustrates the point : "Once when it (Maiden- hood) was printed in an illustrated paper, it fell into the hands of a poor woman living in a sterile portion of the North-West. She had papered the walls of her cabin with the journals which a friend had sent her, and the poem with its picture was upon the wall by her table. Here, as she stood at her bread-making or ironing, day after day, she gazed at the picture and read the poem, until by long brooding over it she under- stood it and absorbed it as people rarely possess the words they read. The friend who sent her the paper was himself a man of letters, ard coming afterwards to see her in her loneliness, stood amazed and humbled as she talked artlessly to him about the poem, and disclosed the depths of her intellig* .ice of its beauty and thought." There is the true method suggested. Ponder what you are about to teach until you have absorbed it, and then artlessly disclose its beauty to your class. Saturated with the feeling and thought of the poem, and keeping clear the communication of that thought and feeling to your class as your main object, your intelligence and experience will readily suggest a method. It is not, of course, to be expected that what you have your- self won by long meditation reinforced by the accumulated reading of years, can be communicated in one or in many lessons, but an impetus can certainly be given to the better pupils that they will never after- wards lose. It is a common experience that the pieces of literature learned in youth are those to which we return with greatest pleasure in after-life, and the teacher who does not allow his own enthusiasm to die out need not despair of opening for his pupils a fountain to which in after-life they may again and again return for fresh draughts of joy and strength. 'I II' m ,;^ iF ' "7.:: ■iir LONGFELLOW. EVANGELINE. A TALE OF ACADIB. This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and th« hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand Hke harpers hoar, ^rith beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the waU of the forest. This is the forest primeval ; but virhere are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood- lands. Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an imaire ^ heaven? * Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed ! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the uceoiCL Naughty but^^ition remains of the beautiful village of Pi I* ' in i ■ u *4 1 a . UMTOFSLLOW. Te who believe in affection that hopes, and endnres, and if patient, Te who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest ; Liist to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. PART THE FIRST. I. In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, » Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pr^ Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmer had raised with labour incessant, ' ' Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood- 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 unf «inced o'er the plain ; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic m Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their ctation deeoend e d. I', >( i U[ K ■TAHOBLnn. , and ii roman's of the inas, M m I to the '.vvS without 1 labour 1 eflood- :| 86 9 »'er the 1 ds and 1 to the ■ 5 ontains 1 mighty 80 f ctatiqn -m There, in the midBt of its f amu, reposed the Acadian village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock. Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables projecting 36 Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 40 Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and maidens, 45 Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelas sounded, and over the roofs of the village Colunms of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, so Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and oontentment TT 11 Hi 11 ^ n \ .X:-^ ^^^'^Z"^ * LONOFBLLOW. Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; 66 But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Fr^, Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his house- hold, eo Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow flakes; White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers ; 66 Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows . When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide ' Flagons of home-brewed a]e, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. 70 Fairer was she when, on Sunday mom, while the bell from iti turret i armers, — they free ) vice of 3 to their 16 rts of the aundance. Basin of Dd-Pr^, his house- 00 16 village. J winters; ith snow brown as imers ; «6 [thorn by 'n shade in the Inoontide Iwas the 70 from iti Evangeline. TO FACE PAGE 4 fpT ,> xV I Mi §\ V |! « '»■ ^^ ^ 4 i i ! ' 'I ■TANOKLINB. Sprinkled with holy sooncU the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, %^.'eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates loo Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pr^ Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed hig house- hold. 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 foot- steps, Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; no Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village. Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. Bttt) among all who oame^ young Gabriel only was weioome ; ,1 10 A mwAMQJtujsm, Gabriel Lajeonesae, the son of Basil f^he blacksmith, ill Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all men; For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations. Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, itt 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 126 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, i8o Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows, And as its panting ceased, and the sparks: expired ia tk j ashes. Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of tlu eagle, Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. ]3g Oft in- the bams they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow TW :! i IM 8 LOKGFBLLOW. 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 Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples ; us She too would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance. Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 1 1 i i •» I I IL 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, IM Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey lu Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters assertod Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. ^ li^ aI KTAVOKLINB. colder Snoh was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All- Saints ! Filled was the air with a drcuiny and magical light ; and the landHcape iso Lay aa if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm- yards, Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the oooing of pigeons, IM All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours around him ; While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. 170 Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and still- ness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting thei^ necks on each other, , '; IS' ' .1:1' 10 LONOFBLLOW. -il 111 I And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness ol evening. W Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar. Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, 180 Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers j Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their proticotor. When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. iss Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes. Laden with briny hay, that flllod the air with its odor. Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks. While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and poa 'erous saddles, Painted with brillant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, 190 Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. Patiently stood the cows mtianwhile, and 3rielded their udders Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pailifi the foaming streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard m the farm- yard, IM Echoed back by the bams. Anon they Mttk int(» stillneBa ; mWAMQWUMM. 11 ihnefw of in ifer, ^ed from 3tioii. from the >wed the 180 e of his uuperbly lers ; t; their tnoe, the 186 om the id their a'eroua ssela of 190 ossoms. udders sadence ed. farm- los Hness; HeftTily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the bam> doors, Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent In-doora, yr&rm by the wide-monthed fireplace, idly the farmer Sat in his elbow-ohair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths 200 Struggled together like foes in a burning oity. Behind him, Nodding and mocking along the wall with gesturea fantastic, Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into dark- ness. Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his aim-chair Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser aos Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sun- shine. Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vine- yards. Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 210 Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner behind her. Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle. While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. -?^/ As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, tu Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, 9o, in each pause of the song, with measored motion the clock dicked. ill ' 1 ' 13 LONOrBLLOW. I Thus as thej Rat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung hack on its binges. Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the black- smith, 220 And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. " Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold, « Welcome, Basil, my friend 1 Come, take thy place on the settle . Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; 225 Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the curling Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face gleams Bound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the black- smith, Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fire-side : — 2S0 "Bonedict Bellefontaine, thou hast over thy jest and thy ballad! Ever in the cheerfuUest mood art thou, when others are filled with Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horse- shje." Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 286 And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he Si^wly continued : — ''Four days now are passed since the English ships at thei» anohon M ■VANOBUNB. 13 8iidd&nl;y ;k on its he black- nth him. s paused ) on the )ut thee; box of 220 B curling Tial face t of the le black- ): — 280 ^ballad! ure filled Bm. a horse- bronghl SSft 8i»wly it thei» Ride in the Gaspereau's month, with their cannon pointed against us. What their design maybe is unknown; but all are commanded On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate S40 Will be proclaimed as law in the land.^ Alas ! in the mean- time „ Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people/' Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some friendlier purpose Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 245 And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." ** Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith. Shaking his head as in doubt; then, her.ving a sigh, ho continued : — •• Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau S^jour, nor Port Royal Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its out- skirts, 260 Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and v. arlike weapons of all kinds ; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, 266 Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean. Than our fathers in iovta, besieged by the enemy's cannon. Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow Ill tli :5 I Hi B w i hi ii ■ f\ f j v\ lifl I j 1 i Ji i u LONOPILLOW. \y^' \?. A.' Fall on this house and hearth ; for thip ia the night of the contract. Built are the house and the bam. The merry lads of the village MO Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round about them, Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelve* month. Ren^ Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhom. Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our chUdrenI" As aparf-. by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, MS Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, , And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. IIL Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean. Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken doss of the maize, hung 870 Over his "^ .oulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supemaL Father of twentv children was he, and more than a hundred Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watoh Vfj.,^^ ' tick. Four long years in the times of war had he languished a captive, 276 Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the y.tigliiyti, i i i BTANOILINl. 15 Now, though warier grown, without all gvile or siupioiaii, Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. } He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; .. '-^-^ ^ For he told them tales of the ^Loup-garo^ in the forest, ' sso 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 ho^' the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nut- And . iil.xj marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes. With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. Then up rose from hia seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, Knocked ''rom his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, " Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast heard the talk in the village, 280 And, perchance, caust tell us some news of these ships and their errand." Then with modest -e-iia*--- .nor made answer the notary public, — ''Gossip enough ' a. • V iic-ard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; And what ^heir t •" 'K' niay be I know no better than others. Yet am I not of those v' i* imagii:«e some evil intention 205 Brings them here, for ve are at peace ; and why then molest usi" "Qod's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith ; "Must we in alJ ^.hings look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore i Daily injustice is -i: ?'.«, aii/l might is the right of the strongest!" But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notair public.— m 16 LONOFKLLOW. I I'll ! ¥..i f 'li *' Man is unjuat, but God is juat ; and finally jostioe Triumphs; and well I reinomber a story, that often consoled me, When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." This was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it When his neighbours complained that any injustice was done them. ao6 " Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice Stood in the public square, uphoklir , vhe scales in its left hand, And in its right a sword, as an emh.f at justice presided Over the laws of the land, and the he; js and homes of the people. 'sio Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, 1 1 aving no fear of the aword that flashed in the sunshine above them. But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted; Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a noblemanV palace 8is That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. She, after fi)iin of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, SW Ix) ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand Down on the pavement belo'v the clattering scales of the balance, And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie^ Into whose clay-built wails the necklace of pearls was inwoven. n BTANOIURB. It loled me^ Royal." repeat it iras done 806 member, ft hand, resided s of the '810 I of the le above rrupted; pressed, lemanV 816 oion lold. d, istioe. bunder its left 1, of Ui« Is was Silenoed, but not convinced, when the storj wm ended, tlu) blacksmith Stood like a man who fain would speak, but ILidoth no language ; All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapours Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, sso Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in tlie village of Grand-Pr^; While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhom, Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties. Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 885 Orderly all things proceeded, and duly ana well were completed, And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table Three times the old man's fe j in solid pieces of silver ; And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bride- groom, 840 Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed. While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its comer. Soon was tlie game begun. In friendly contention the old men 845 Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre. Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure. Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise rT^T y 'ii : mr m 1 1 L! r ! f' f n l!i \i Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway y Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the ' household. m iiiny a farewell word and sweet sood-night on the door- step Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with glad- ness. Carefully bhen were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone, And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. SooD with a soundleiJs step the foot of Evangeline fol- lowed, 860 Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, Lighted less by the lamp than th« shiniiig fact*, of the maiden. Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the dour of her chamber. Sim|. b ihat chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 166 Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. This was the prncious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage. Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her akill as a house- wife. Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the melUiw and radiant mooij light Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart ««£ the maiden no / IfAHOBUVB. 19 Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremnloos tides of the ocean. Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming fl(joi of her chamber 1 Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard. Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. 876 Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moon- Ught Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her foot- steps, MD As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar. nr. Pleasantly rose next mom the sun on the village of Grand- Prrf. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour sso Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. Now from the country around, from the farms and neighbouring hamlets. Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk Made thn bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, nt i I 20 LONOFELLOW. Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, Group a£ter group appeared, and joined, or passed on the high- way. Loug ere 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 the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 896 Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together. All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant ; For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 400 Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated ; 604 There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly faoe of the fiddler tto Qlowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown finom the embers. Gkyly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle^ STANOBLUfB. 31 Tous lea Bourgeois de C/iortres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque^ And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the musia Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 4i6 Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter ! Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! So passed the morning away. And lo 1 with a summons sonorous 4to Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones Garlands of autumn-leayes and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them 426 Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and (case- (ment, A^r-v^'^''^ ^ Vv^^-v^ , -.k, tA.A>^^t.:i Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. Then uprose theircommander, and spake from the steps of the altar, " ' l^ ^^--^ *•*-' -^'^ H' '^''^ m Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. "You are convened this day," he said "by his Majesty's orders. Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kindness, w % \ I 3i LOlfOPBLLOW. Let yonr own hearts reply! To my natural make and lAj temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know mast be grievous. IM Tet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of oar monarch: Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds Forfeit(M] be to the crown ; and that you yourselvet from thia province Be transported to other lands. Gk>d grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! mo Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's pleasure I" As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hail- stones Beats down the farmer's com in the field, and shatters his windows. Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, 446 Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosorea ; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door- way. 4M Vain was the hope of escape; and ones and fierce imprecations Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of tlie others Rose, with his arms uplift shore, Pausing and looking back to gaze onoe mure on their dwellings, Bre they were shut from sight by the winding road and the ' woodland. sao 17 farm- 626 580 Close At 5Heir sid^s their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's month they harried ; and there on the sea-beach Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; 6SS All day long the wains came labouring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 640 Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. Even as pilgrims, who Journey afar from their homes and their country. Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way- worn, So with rtongs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daug^iters. 54l Foremost the yoimg men came ; and, raising together tlioir voices, Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : " Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain ! Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience ! " Then the old men, as they marcher'., and the women that stood by the wayside m mm 28 LONGFELLOW. i! tu Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, 656 And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, Clasped she his hands, and laid her head- on his shoulder, and whispered, — " Gabriel 1 be of good cheer I for if we love one another Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen 1 " . MO Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she, slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect ! Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, 666 Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful pro- cession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of em* barking. C* Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion >V Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late^ saw their children m 1 1 Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. ■YANOBLINB. St em« nro fttie& So anto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her i father. Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight '\t'' Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent "^ i) ocean 676 Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp ^nd the slippery sea- „ i 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, 680 Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean. Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from ir pastures ; Sweet was the moist e* ^1 air with the odor of milk from their udders ; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard, — Waited and looked in vain for the voice ard the hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets ; from tb: church no Angelus sounded, Hose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. 680 Bat on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. so MHQFBLLOW. "fc \i» -l Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, Voices of women ware heai-d, and of men, and the crying of children. Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, tm Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, ^^JjW Like unto shipwreck(Mi 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 giued at the flickering fire-light. " Jicr MJiciM / " murmured the priest in tones of comptission. eo6 More he fain would have said, hut his heart was full, and his accents Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a tlireshold. Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence ot 8onx)w. Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden. Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them 810 Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Than sat he down at her side, and they wept together in •ilenoe. .L .J BTANOBLINI. SI Saddenly rote from the south a light, as in autumn the Wood-red / Moon olimbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, «i8 Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering r ^^r r hands of a martyr.