THIS is the forest primeval.

The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rock caverns, the deep!voiced neighboring ocean
"
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval# but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the
huntsman$
%here is the thatch!roofed village, the home of &cadian farmers'
(en whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened b shadows of earth, but re)ecting an image of heaven$
%aste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed*
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the might blasts of +ctober
Sei,e them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o-er the ocean.
.
/aught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of 0rand!1re.
2e who believe in a3ection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
2e who believe in the beaut and strength of woman-s devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung b the pines of the forest#
List to a Tale of Love in &cadie, home of the happ.
1&4T TH5 6I4ST
I
I/ TH5 &cadian land, on the shores of the Basin of (inas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of 0rand!1re
La in the fruitful valle. 7ast meadows stretched to the eastward,
0iving the village its name, and pasture to )ocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides# but at stated seasons the )ood!gates
89
+pened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o-er the meadows.
%est and south there were :elds of )a;, and orchards and corn!:elds
Spreading afar and unfenced o-er the plain# and awa to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea!fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the might &tlantic
Looked on the happ valle, but ne-er from their station descended.
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the &cadian village.
Strongl built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,
Such as the peasants of /ormand built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer!windows# and gables pro<ecting
88
+ver the basement below protected and shaded the doorwa.
There in the tran=uil evenings of summer, when brightl the sunset
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimnes,
(atrons and maidens sat in snow!white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with dista3s spinning the golden
6la; for the gossiping looms, whose nois shuttles within doors
(ingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the
maidens.
Solemnl down the street came the parish priest, and the children
1aused in their pla to kiss the hand he e;tended to bless them.
4everend walked he among them# and up rose matrons and maidens,
8>
Hailing his slow approach with words of a3ectionate welcome.
Then came the laborers home from the :eld, and serenel the sun sank
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. &non from the belfr
Softl the &ngelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
?olumns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
4ose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love these simple &cadian farmers'
Dwelt in the love of 0od and of man. &like were the free from
6ear, that reigns with the trant, and env, the vice of republics.
/either locks had the to their doors, nor bars to their windows#
8@
But their dwellings were open as da 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 (inas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of 0rand!1re,
Dwelt on his goodl acres# and with him, directing his household,
0entle 5vangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalworth and statel in form was the man of sevent winters#
Heart and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow!)akes#
%hite as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak!
leaves.
8A
6air was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
Black were her ees as the berr that grows on the thorn b the wa!side,
Black, et how softl the gleamed beneath the brown shade of her
tresses*
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
%hen in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
6lagons of home!brewed ale, ah* fair in sooth was the maiden.
6airer was she when, on Sunda morn, while the bell from its turret
Sprinkled with hol sounds the air, as the priest with his hsop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
8B
%earing her /orman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear!rings,
Brought in the olden time from 6rance, and since, as an heirloom,
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
But a celestial brightness'a more ethereal beaut'
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
Homeward serenel she walked with 0od-s benediction upon her.
%hen she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of e;=uisite music.
6irml builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea# and a shad
Scamore grew b the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
8"
4udel carved was the porch, with seats beneath# and a footpath
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
Cnder the scamore!tree were hives overhung b a pent!house,
Such as the traveler sees in regions remote b the roadside,
Built o-er a bo; for the poor, or the blessed image of (ar.
6arther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss!grown
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the
farm!ard.
There stood the broad!wheeled wains and the anti=ue plows and the
harrows#
There were the folds for the sheep# and there, in his feathered seraglio,
8.
Strutted the lordl turke, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
7oice that in ages of old had startled the penitent 1eter.
Bursting with ha were the barns, themselves a village. In each one
6ar o-er the gable pro<ected a roof of thatch# and a staircase,
Cnder the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn!loft.
There too the dove!cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
(urmuring ever of love# while above in the variant bree,es
/umberless nois weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
Thus, at peace with 0od and the world, the farmer of 0rand!1re
8D
Lived on his sunn farm, and 5vangeline governed his household.
(an a outh, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,
6i;ed his ees upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion#
Happ was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment*
(an a suitor came to her door, b the darkness befriended,
&nd as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,
Enew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron#
+r at the <oous feast of the 1atron 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.
8F
But, among all who came, oung 0abriel onl was welcome#
0abriel La<eunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,
%ho was a might man in the village, and honored of all men#
6or since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute b the people.
Basil was Benedict-s friend. Their children from earliest childhood
0rew up together as brother and sister, and 6ather 6elician,
1riest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
+ut of the selfsame book, with the hmns of the church and the plain!song.
But when the hmn was sung, and the dail lesson completed,
>9
Swiftl the hurried awa to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
There at the door the stood, with wondering ees to behold him
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plathing,
/ailing the shoe in its place# while near him the tire of the cart!wheel
La like a :er snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
+ft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness
Bursting with light seemed the smith, through ever crann and crevice,
%arm b the forge within the watched the laboring bellows,
&nd as its panting ceased, and the sparks e;pired in the ashes,
(erril laughed, and said the were nuns going into the chapel.
>8
+ft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
Down the hill!side bounding, the glided awa o-er the meadow.
+ft in the barns the climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
Seeking with eager ees that wondrous stone, which the swallow
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its )edglings
Luck was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow*
Thus passed a few swift ears, and the no longer were children.
He was a valiant outh, and his face, like the face of the morning,
0laddened the earth with its light and ripened through into action.
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
>>
GSunshine of Saint 5ulalieG was she called# for that was the sunshine
%hich, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples#
She, too, would bring to her husband-s house delight and abundance,
6illing it full of love and the rudd faces of children.
1&4T TH5 6I4ST
7
6+C4 times the sun had risen and set# and now on the :fth da
?heeril called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farmhouse.
Soon o-er the ellow :elds, in silent and mournful procession,
?ame from the neighboring hamlets and farms the &cadian women,
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the seashore,
1ausing and looking back to ga,e once more on their dwellings,
".
5re the were shut from sight b the winding road and the woodland.
?lose at their sides their children ran, and urged on the o;en,
%hile in their little hands the clasped some fragments of plathings.
There to the 0aspereau-s mouth the hurried# and there on the sea!beach
1iled in confusion la the household goods of the peasants.
&ll da long the wains came laboring down from the village.
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
5choing far o-er the :elds came the roll of drums from the churchard.
".
Thither the women and children thronged. +n a sudden the church!doors
+pened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloom procession
6ollowed the long!imprisoned, but patient, &cadian farmers.
5ven as pilgrims, who <ourne afar from their homes and their countr,
Sing as the go, and in singing forget the are wear and waworn,
So with songs on their lips the &cadian peasants descended
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
6oremost the oung men came# and, raising together their voices,
Sang the with tremulous lips a chant of the ?atholic (issions'
GSacred heart of the Saviour* + ine;haustible fountain*
"D
6ill our hearts this da with strength and submission and patience*G
Then the old men, as the marched, and the women that stood b the
waside
Hoined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
(ingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
Half!wa down to the shore 5vangeline waited in silence,
/ot overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of aIiction'
?alml and sadl waited, until the procession approached her,
&nd she beheld the face of 0abriel pale with emotion.
Tears then :lled her ees, and, eagerl running to meet him,
"F
?lasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder and whispered'
G0abriel* be of good cheer* for if we love one another,
/othing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances ma happen*G
Smiling she spake these words# then suddenl paused, for her father
Saw she slowl advancing. &las* how changed was his aspect*
0one was the glow from his cheek, and the :re from his ee, and his
footstep
Heavier seemed with the weight of the wear heart in his bosom.
But with a smile and a sigh she clasped his neck and embraced him,
Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
Thus to the 0aspereau-s mouth moved on that mournful procession.
.9
There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
Busil plied the freighted boats# and in the confusion
%ives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their
children
Left on the land, e;tending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
So unto separate ships were Basil and 0abriel carried,
%hile in despair on the shore 5vangeline 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 re)uent ocean
6led awa from the shore, and left the line of the sand!beach
?overed with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slipper seaweed.
.8
6arther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
Like to a gps camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
&ll escape cut o3 b the sea, and the sentinels near them,
La encamped for the night the houseless &cadian farmers.
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures#
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders#
Lowing the waited, and long, at the well!known bars of the farmard'
.>
%aited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.
Silence reigned in the streets# from the church no &ngelus sounded,
4ose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
But on the shores meanwhile the evening :res had been kindled,
Built of the driftwood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
4ound them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
7oices of women were heard, and of men, and the cring of children.
+nward from :re to :re, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
%andered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
.@
Like unto shipwrecked 1aul on (elita-s desolate sea!shore.
Thus he approached the place where 5vangeline sat with her father,
&nd in the )ickering light beheld the face of the old man,
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
5-en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
7ainl 5vangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
7ainl o3ered him food# et he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
But, with a vacant stare, ever ga,ed at the )ickering :relight.
GBenedicite*G murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.
(ore he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
.A
6altered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
Hushed b the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
Silentl, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
4aising his ees, full of tears, to the silent stars that above them
(oved on their wa, unperturbed b the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
Then sat he down at her side, and the wept together in silence.
Suddenl rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood!red
(oon climbs the crstal walls of heaven, and o-er the hori,on
Titan!like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,
.B
Sei,ing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
0leamed on the sk and the sea, and the ships that la in the roadstead.
?olumns of shining smoke uprose, and )ashes of )ame were
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the =uivering hands of a
martr.
Then as the wind sei,ed the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
%hirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred housetops
Started the sheeted smoke with )ashes of )ame intermingled.
These things beheld in disma the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
."
Speechless at :rst the stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
G%e shall behold no more our homes in the village of 0rand!1re*G
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farmards,
Thinking the da had dawned# and anon the lowing of cattle
?ame on the evening bree,e, b the barking of dogs interrupted.
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
6ar in the western prairies or forests that skirt the /ebraska,
%hen the wild horses a3righted sweep b with the speed of the whirlwind,
+r the loud bellowing herds of bu3aloes rush to the river.
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
..
Broke through their folds and fences, and madl rushed o-er the meadows.
+verwhelmed with the sight, et speechless, the priest and the maiden
0a,ed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them#
&nd as the turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
Lo* from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore
(otionless la his form from which the soul had departed.
Slowl the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
Enelt at her father-s side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
Then in a swoon she sank, and la with her head on his bosom.
.D
Through the long night she la in deep, oblivious slumber#
&nd when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
6aces of friends she beheld, that were mournfull ga,ing upon her,
1allid, with tearful ees, and looks of saddest compassion.
Still the bla,e of the burning village illumined the landscape,
4eddened the sk overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
&nd like the da of doom it seemed to her wavering senses,
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people'
GLet us bur him here b the sea. %hen a happier season
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our e;ile,
.F
Then shall his sacred dust be piousl laid in the churchard.G
Such were the words of the priest. &nd there in haste b the seaside,
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
But without bell or book, the buried the farmer of 0rand!1re.
&nd as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
Lo* with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
Solemnl answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
-T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
%ith the :rst dawn of the da, came heaving and hurring landward.
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking#
D9
&nd with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
1&4T TH5 S5?+/D
I
(&/2 a wear ear had passed since the burning of 0rand!1re,
%hen on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into e;ile,
5;ile without an end, and without an e;ample in stor.
6ar asunder, on separate coasts, the &cadians landed#
Scattered were the, like )akes of snow when the wind from the northeast
DA
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of /ewfoundland.
6riendless, homeless, hopeless, the wandered from cit to cit,
6rom the cold lakes of the /orth to sultr Southern savannas'
6rom the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the 6ather of %aters
Sei,es the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,
Deep in their sands to bur the scattered bones of the mammoth.
6riends the sought and homes# and man, despairing, heartbroken,
&sked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a :reside.
%ritten their histor stands on tablets of stone in the churchards.
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
DB
Lowl and meek in spirit, and patientl su3ering all things.
6air was she and oung# but, alas* before her e;tended,
Drear and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathwa
(arked b the graves of those who had sorrowed and su3ered before her,
1assions long e;tinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
&s the emigrant-s wa o-er the %estern desert is marked b
?amp!:res long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, un:nished#
&s if a morning of Hune, with all its music and sunshine,
Suddenl paused in the sk, and, fading, slowl descended
D"
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged b the fever within her,
Crged b a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
She would commence again her endless search and endeavor#
Sometimes in churchards straed, and ga,ed on the crosses and
tombstones,
Sat b some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
He was alread at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsa, an inarticulate whisper,
?ame with its air hand to point and beckon her forward.
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known
him,
D.
But it was long ago, in some far!o3 place or forgotten.
G0abriel La<eunesse*G said the# G+, es* we have seen him.
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies#
?oureurs!des!Bois are the, and famous hunters and trappers,G
G0abriel La<eunesse*G said others# G+, es* we have seen him.
He is a 7oageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.G
Then would the saJ GDear child* wh dream and wait for him longer$
&re there not other ouths as fair as 0abriel$ others
%ho have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loal$
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notar-s son, who has loved thee
DD
(an a tedious ear# come, give him th hand and be happ*
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. ?atherine-s tresses.G
Then would 5vangeline answer, serenel but sadl'GI cannot*
%hither m heart has gone, there follows m hand, and not elsewhere.
6or when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathwa,
(an things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.G
&nd thereupon the priest, her friend and father!confessor,
Said, with a smile'G+ daughter* th 0od thus speaketh within thee*
Talk not of wasted a3ection, a3ection never was wasted#
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
DF
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall :ll them full of refreshment#
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
1atience# accomplish th labor# accomplish th work of a3ection*
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike,
Therefore accomplish th labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
1uri:ed, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worth of heaven*G
?heered b the good man-s words, 5vangeline labored and waited.
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, GDespair
not*G
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,
F9
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of e;istence.
Let me essa, + (use* to follow the wanderer-s footsteps#
/ot through each devious path, each changeful ear of e;istence#
But as a traveler follows a streamlet-s course through the valle#
6ar from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals onlJ
Then drawing nearer its banks, through slvan glooms that conceal it,
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur#
Happ, at length, if he :nd the spot where it reaches an outlet.
1&4T TH5 S5?+/D
I7
6&4 in the %est there lies a desert land, where the mountains
Lift, through perpetual snows, their loft and luminous summits.
Down from their <agged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gatewa,
+pens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant-s wagon,
%estward the +regon )ows and the %allewa and +whee.
5astward, with devious course, among the %indriver (ountains,
8>D
Through the Sweetwater 7alle precipitate leaps the /ebraska#
&nd to the south, from 6ontaine!=ui!bout and the Spanish sierras,
6retted with sands and rocks, and swept b the wind of the desert,
/umberless 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,
Billow bas of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
Bright with lu;uriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
+ver them wander the bu3alo herds, and the elk and the roebuck#
+ver them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses#
8>F
6ires that blast and blight, and winds that are wear with travel#
+ver them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael-s children,
Staining the desert with blood# and above their terrible war!trails
?ircles and sails aloft, on pinions ma<estic, the vulture,
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
B invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders#
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift!running rivers#
&nd the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
?limbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots b the brookside,
8@9
&nd over all is the sk, the clear and crstalline heaven,
Like the protecting hand of 0od inverted above them.
Into this wonderful land, at the base of the +,ark (ountains,
0abriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
Da after da, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
followed his )ing steps, and thought each da to o-ertake him.
Sometimes the saw, or thought the saw, the smoke of his camp!:re
4ise in the morning air from the distant plain# but at nightfall,
%hen the had reached the place, the found onl embers and ashes.
8@8
&nd, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were wear,
Hope still guided them on, as the magic 6ata (organa
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.
+nce, as the sat b their evening :re, there silentl entered
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
%ore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
6rom the far!o3 hunting!grounds of the cruel ?amanches,
%here her ?anadian husband, a ?oureur!des!Bois, had been murdered.
8@>
Touched were their hearts at her stor, and warmest and friendliest
welcome
0ave the, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
+n the bu3alo meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
%orn with the long da-s march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the =uivering
:relight
6lashed on their swarth cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their
blankets,
Then at the door of 5vangeline-s tent she sat and repeated
Slowl, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
&ll the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
8@@
(uch 5vangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
(oved to the depths of her soul b pit and woman-s compassion,
2et in her sorrow pleased that one who had su3ered was near her,
She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
(ute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
Still was mute# but at length, as if a msterious horror
1assed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the (owis#
(owis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
8@A
6ading and melting awa 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 seem like a weird incantation,
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed b a phantom,
That, through the pines o-er her father-s lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
&nd never more returned, nor was seen again b her people.
Silent with wonder and strange surprise 5vangeline listened
To the soft )ow of her magical words, till the region around her
8@B
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarth guest the enchantress.
Slowl over the tops of the +,ark (ountains the moon rose,
Lighting the little tent, and with a msterious splendor
Touching the somber leaves, and embracing and :lling the woodland.
%ith a delicious sound the brook rushed b, and the branches
Swaed and sighed overhead in scarcel audible whispers.
6illed with the thoughts of love was 5vangeline-s heart, but a secret,
Subtile sense crept in of pain and inde:nite terror,
&s the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
It was no earthl fear. & breath from the region of spirits
8@"
Seemed to )oat in the air of night# and she felt for a moment
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
&nd with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had
vanished.
5arl upon the morrow the march was resumed# and the Shawnee
Said, as the <ourneed along'G+n the western slope of these mountains
Dwells in his little village the Black 4obe chief of the (ission.
(uch he teaches the people, and tells them of (ar and Hesus#
Loud laugh their hearts with <o, and weep with pain, as the hear him.G
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, 5vangeline answered'
8@.
GLet us go to the (ission, for there good tidings await us*G
Thither the turned their steeds# and behind a spur of the mountains,
Hust as the sun went down, the heard a murmur of voices,
&nd in a meadow green and broad, b the bank of a river,
Saw the tents of the ?hristians, the tents of the Hesuit (ission.
Cnder a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
Enelt the Black 4obe chief with his children. & cruci:; fastened
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed b grape!vines,
Looked with its agoni,ed face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
This was their rural chapel. &loft, through the intricate arches
8@D
+f its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
(ingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travelers, nearer approaching,
Enelt on the swarded )oor, and <oined in the evening devotions.
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
6orth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
Slowl the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them
%elcome# and when the replied, he smiled with benignant e;pression,
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother tongue in the forest,
&nd with words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam.
8@F
There upon mats and skins the reposed, and on cakes of the mai,e!ear
6easted, and slaked their thirst from the water!gourd of the teacher.
Soon was their stor told# and the priest with solemnit answeredJ
G/ot si; suns have risen and set since 0abriel, seated
+n this mat b m side, where now the maiden reposes,
Told me this same sad tale# then arose and continued his <ourne*G
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness#
But on 5vangeline-s heart fell his words as in winter the snow)akes
6all into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
G6ar to the north he has gone,G continued the priest# Gbut in autumn,
8A9
%hen the chase is done, will return again to the (ission.G
Then 5vangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive'
GLet me remain with thee, for m soul is sad and aIicted.G
So seemed it wise and well unto all# and betimes on the morrow,
(ounting his (e;ican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
Homeward Basil returned, and 5vangeline staed at the (ission.
Slowl, slowl, slowl the das succeeded each other'
Das and weeks and months# and the :elds of mai,e that were springing
0reen from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,
8A8
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
?loisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged b s=uirrels.
Then in the golden weather the mai,e was busked, 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!:eld.
5ven the blood!red ear to 5vangeline brought not her lover.
G1atience*G the priest would sa# Ghave faith, and th praer 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#
It is the compass!)ower, that the :nger of 0od has suspended
8A>
Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveler-s <ourne
+ver the sea!like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,
0a and lu;uriant )owers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
But the beguile us, and lead us astra, and their odor is deadl.
+nl this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
?rown us with asphodel )owers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe.G
So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter'et 0abriel came not#
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
8A@
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, et 0abriel came not.
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
6ar to the north and east, it said, in the (ichigan forests,
0abriel had his lodge b the banks of the Saginaw river.
&nd, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
Saing a sad farewell, 5vangeline went from the (ission.
%hen over wear was, b long and perilous marches,
She had attained at length the depths of the (ichigan forests,
6ound she the hunter-s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin*
8AA
Thus did the long sad ears glide on, and in seasons and places
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden#
/ow in the tents of grace of the meek (oravian (issions,
/ow in the nois camps and the battle!:elds of the arm,
/ow in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities,
Like a phantom she came, and passed awa unremembered.
6air was she and oung, when in hope began the long <ourne#
6aded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
5ach succeeding ear stole something awa from her beaut,
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
8AB
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gra o-er her forehead,
Dawn of another life, that broke o-er her earthl hori,on,
&s in the eastern sk the :rst faint streaks of the morning.
1&4T TH5 S5?+/D
7
I/ that delightful land which is washed b the Delaware-s waters,
0uarding in slvan shades the name of 1enn the apostle,
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the cit he founded.
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beaut,
&nd the streets still re!echo the names of the trees of the forest,
&s if the fain would appease the Drads whose haunts the molested.
8AD
There from the troubled sea had 5vangeline landed, an e;ile,
6inding among the children of 1enn a home and a countr.
There old 4ene Leblanc had died# and when he departed,
Saw at his side onl one of all his hundred descendants.
Something at least there was in the friendl streets of the cit,
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a strangerJ
&nd her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Kuakers,
6or it recalled the past, the old &cadian countr,
%here all men were e=ual, and all were brothers and sisters.
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
8AF
5nded, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
&s from a mountain-s top the rain mists of the morning
4oll awa, 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 pathwa
%hich she had climbed so far, ling smooth and fair in the distance.
0abriel was not forgotten. %ithin her heart was his image,
?lothed in the beaut of love and outh, as last she beheld him,
8B9
+nl more beautiful made b his deathlike silence and absence.
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
+ver him ears had no power# he was not changed, but trans:gured#
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent#
1atience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
So was her love di3used, but, like to some odorous spices,
Su3ered no waste nor loss, though :lling the air with aroma.
+ther hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
(eekl, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
8B8
Thus man ears she lived as a Sister of (erc# fre=uenting
Lonel and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the cit,
%here distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,
%here disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
/ight after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
Loud, through the gust streets, that all was well in the cit,
High at some lonel window he saw the light of her taper.
Da after da, in the gra of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
1lodded the 0erman farmer, with )owers and fruits for the market,
(et he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.
8B>
Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the cit,
1resaged b wondrous signs, and mostl b )ocks of wild pigeons,
Darkening the sun in their )ight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
&nd, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
6looding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in a meadow,
So death )ooded life, and o-er)owing its natural margin,
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of e;istence.
%ealth had no power to bribe, nor beaut to charm, the oppressor#
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger'
+nl, alas* the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
8B@
?rept awa to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless#
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands'
/ow the cit surrounds it# but still with its gatewa and wicket
(eek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
Softl the words of the Lord'GThe poor e alwas have with ou.G
Thither, b night and b da, came the Sister of (erc. The ding
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
0leams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
Such as the artist paints o-er the brows of saints and apostles,
+r such as hangs b night o-er a cit seen at a distance.
8BA
Cnto their ees it seemed the lamps of the cit celestial,
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.
Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
%ending her =uiet wa, she entered the door of the almshouse.
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of )owers in the garden#
&nd she paused on her wa to gather the fairest among them,
That the ding once more might re<oice in their fragrance and beaut.
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled b the east wind,
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfr of ?hrist ?hurch,
8BB
%hile, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
Sounds of psalms, that were sung b the Swedes in their church at %icaco.
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit#
Something within her said'G&t length th trials are ended#G
&nd, with a light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
/oiselessl moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
(oistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
?losing the sightless ees of the dead, and concealing their faces,
%here on their pallets the la, like drifts of snow b the roadside.
(an a languid head, upraised as 5vangeline entered,
8B"
Turned on its pillow of pain to ga,e while she passed, for her presence
6ell on their hearts like a ra of the sun on the walls of a prison.
&nd, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
Laing his hand upon man a heart, had healed it forever.
(an familiar forms had disappeared in the night!time#
7acant their places were, or :lled alread b strangers.
Suddenl, as if arrested b fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
4an through her frame, and, forgotten, the )owerets dropped from her
:ngers,
8B.
&nd from her ees and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then there escaped from her lips a cr of such terrible anguish,
That the ding heard it, and started up from their pillows.
+n the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and gra were the locks that shaded his temples#
But, as he la in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood#
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are ding.
Hot and red on his lips still burned the )ush of the fever,
&s if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
8BD
That the &ngel of Death might see the sign, and pass over,
(otionless, senseless, ding, he la, and his spirit e;hausted
Seemed to be sinking down to in:nite depths in the darkness,
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cr of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
%hispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint!like,
G0abriel* + m beloved*G and died awa into silence.
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood#
0reen &cadian meadows, with slvan rivers among them,
8BF
7illage, and mountain, and woodlands# and, walking under their shadow,
&s in the das of her outh, 5vangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his ees# and as slowl he lifted his eelids,
7anished the vision awa, but 5vangeline knelt b his bedside.
7ainl he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have
spoken.
7ainl he strove to rise# and 5vangeline, kneeling beside him,
Eissed his ding lips, and laid his head on her bosom
Sweet was the light of his ees# but it suddenl sank into darkness,
&s when a lamp is blown out b a gust of wind at a casement.
8"9
&ll was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
&ll the aching of heart, the restless, unsatis:ed longing,
&ll the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience*
&nd, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
(eekl she bowed her own, and murmured, G6ather, I thank thee*G
8"8
Still stands the forest primeval# but far awa from its shadow,
Side b side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Cnder the humble walls of the little ?atholic churchard,
In the heart of the cit, the lie, unknown and unnoticed#
Dail the tides of life go ebbing and )owing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
8">
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are bus,
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
Thousands of wear feet, where theirs have completed their <ourne*
Still stands the forest primeval# but under the shade of its branches
Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
+nl along the shore of the mournful and mist &tlantic
Linger a few &cadian peasants, whose fathers from e;ile
%andered back to their native land to die in its bosom#
In the :sherman-s cot the wheel and the loom are still bus#
8"@
(aidens still wear their /orman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
&nd b the evening :re repeat 5vangeline-s stor,
%hile from its rock caverns the deep!voiced, neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
1&4T TH5 S5?+/D
I
(&/2 a wear ear had passed since the burning of 0rand!1re,
%hen on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into e;ile,
5;ile without an end, and without an e;ample in stor.
6ar asunder, on separate coasts, the &cadians landed#
Scattered were the, like )akes of snow when the wind from the northeast
DA
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of /ewfoundland.
6riendless, homeless, hopeless, the wandered from cit to cit,
6rom the cold lakes of the /orth to sultr Southern savannas'
6rom the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the 6ather of %aters
Sei,es the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,
Deep in their sands to bur the scattered bones of the mammoth.
6riends the sought and homes# and man, despairing, heartbroken,
&sked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a :reside.
%ritten their histor stands on tablets of stone in the churchards.
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
DB
Lowl and meek in spirit, and patientl su3ering all things.
6air was she and oung# but, alas* before her e;tended,
Drear and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathwa
(arked b the graves of those who had sorrowed and su3ered before her,
1assions long e;tinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
&s the emigrant-s wa o-er the %estern desert is marked b
?amp!:res long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, un:nished#
&s if a morning of Hune, with all its music and sunshine,
Suddenl paused in the sk, and, fading, slowl descended
D"
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged b the fever within her,
Crged b a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
She would commence again her endless search and endeavor#
Sometimes in churchards straed, and ga,ed on the crosses and
tombstones,
Sat b some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
He was alread at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsa, an inarticulate whisper,
?ame with its air hand to point and beckon her forward.
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known
him,
D.
But it was long ago, in some far!o3 place or forgotten.
G0abriel La<eunesse*G said the# G+, es* we have seen him.
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies#
?oureurs!des!Bois are the, and famous hunters and trappers,G
G0abriel La<eunesse*G said others# G+, es* we have seen him.
He is a 7oageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.G
Then would the saJ GDear child* wh dream and wait for him longer$
&re there not other ouths as fair as 0abriel$ others
%ho have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loal$
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notar-s son, who has loved thee
DD
(an a tedious ear# come, give him th hand and be happ*
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. ?atherine-s tresses.G
Then would 5vangeline answer, serenel but sadl'GI cannot*
%hither m heart has gone, there follows m hand, and not elsewhere.
6or when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathwa,
(an things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.G
&nd thereupon the priest, her friend and father!confessor,
Said, with a smile'G+ daughter* th 0od thus speaketh within thee*
Talk not of wasted a3ection, a3ection never was wasted#
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
DF
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall :ll them full of refreshment#
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
1atience# accomplish th labor# accomplish th work of a3ection*
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike,
Therefore accomplish th labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
1uri:ed, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worth of heaven*G
?heered b the good man-s words, 5vangeline labored and waited.
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, GDespair
not*G
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,
F9
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of e;istence.
Let me essa, + (use* to follow the wanderer-s footsteps#
/ot through each devious path, each changeful ear of e;istence#
But as a traveler follows a streamlet-s course through the valle#
6ar from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals onlJ
Then drawing nearer its banks, through slvan glooms that conceal it,
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur#
Happ, at length, if he :nd the spot where it reaches an outlet.
Henr %adsworth Longfellow
BostonJ Ticknor L ?ompan, 8DA.
1&4T TH5 S5?+/D
I7
6&4 in the %est there lies a desert land, where the mountains
Lift, through perpetual snows, their loft and luminous summits.
Down from their <agged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gatewa,
+pens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant-s wagon,
%estward the +regon )ows and the %allewa and +whee.
5astward, with devious course, among the %indriver (ountains,
8>D
Through the Sweetwater 7alle precipitate leaps the /ebraska#
&nd to the south, from 6ontaine!=ui!bout and the Spanish sierras,
6retted with sands and rocks, and swept b the wind of the desert,
/umberless 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,
Billow bas of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
Bright with lu;uriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
+ver them wander the bu3alo herds, and the elk and the roebuck#
+ver them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses#
8>F
6ires that blast and blight, and winds that are wear with travel#
+ver them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael-s children,
Staining the desert with blood# and above their terrible war!trails
?ircles and sails aloft, on pinions ma<estic, the vulture,
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
B invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders#
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift!running rivers#
&nd the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
?limbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots b the brookside,
8@9
&nd over all is the sk, the clear and crstalline heaven,
Like the protecting hand of 0od inverted above them.
Into this wonderful land, at the base of the +,ark (ountains,
0abriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
Da after da, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
followed his )ing steps, and thought each da to o-ertake him.
Sometimes the saw, or thought the saw, the smoke of his camp!:re
4ise in the morning air from the distant plain# but at nightfall,
%hen the had reached the place, the found onl embers and ashes.
8@8
&nd, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were wear,
Hope still guided them on, as the magic 6ata (organa
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.
+nce, as the sat b their evening :re, there silentl entered
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
%ore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
6rom the far!o3 hunting!grounds of the cruel ?amanches,
%here her ?anadian husband, a ?oureur!des!Bois, had been murdered.
8@>
Touched were their hearts at her stor, and warmest and friendliest
welcome
0ave the, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
+n the bu3alo meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
%orn with the long da-s march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the =uivering
:relight
6lashed on their swarth cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their
blankets,
Then at the door of 5vangeline-s tent she sat and repeated
Slowl, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
&ll the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
8@@
(uch 5vangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
(oved to the depths of her soul b pit and woman-s compassion,
2et in her sorrow pleased that one who had su3ered was near her,
She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
(ute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
Still was mute# but at length, as if a msterious horror
1assed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the (owis#
(owis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
8@A
6ading and melting awa 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 seem like a weird incantation,
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed b a phantom,
That, through the pines o-er her father-s lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
&nd never more returned, nor was seen again b her people.
Silent with wonder and strange surprise 5vangeline listened
To the soft )ow of her magical words, till the region around her
8@B
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarth guest the enchantress.
Slowl over the tops of the +,ark (ountains the moon rose,
Lighting the little tent, and with a msterious splendor
Touching the somber leaves, and embracing and :lling the woodland.
%ith a delicious sound the brook rushed b, and the branches
Swaed and sighed overhead in scarcel audible whispers.
6illed with the thoughts of love was 5vangeline-s heart, but a secret,
Subtile sense crept in of pain and inde:nite terror,
&s the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
It was no earthl fear. & breath from the region of spirits
8@"
Seemed to )oat in the air of night# and she felt for a moment
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
&nd with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had
vanished.
5arl upon the morrow the march was resumed# and the Shawnee
Said, as the <ourneed along'G+n the western slope of these mountains
Dwells in his little village the Black 4obe chief of the (ission.
(uch he teaches the people, and tells them of (ar and Hesus#
Loud laugh their hearts with <o, and weep with pain, as the hear him.G
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, 5vangeline answered'
8@.
GLet us go to the (ission, for there good tidings await us*G
Thither the turned their steeds# and behind a spur of the mountains,
Hust as the sun went down, the heard a murmur of voices,
&nd in a meadow green and broad, b the bank of a river,
Saw the tents of the ?hristians, the tents of the Hesuit (ission.
Cnder a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
Enelt the Black 4obe chief with his children. & cruci:; fastened
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed b grape!vines,
Looked with its agoni,ed face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
This was their rural chapel. &loft, through the intricate arches
8@D
+f its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
(ingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travelers, nearer approaching,
Enelt on the swarded )oor, and <oined in the evening devotions.
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
6orth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
Slowl the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them
%elcome# and when the replied, he smiled with benignant e;pression,
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother tongue in the forest,
&nd with words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam.
8@F
There upon mats and skins the reposed, and on cakes of the mai,e!ear
6easted, and slaked their thirst from the water!gourd of the teacher.
Soon was their stor told# and the priest with solemnit answeredJ
G/ot si; suns have risen and set since 0abriel, seated
+n this mat b m side, where now the maiden reposes,
Told me this same sad tale# then arose and continued his <ourne*G
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness#
But on 5vangeline-s heart fell his words as in winter the snow)akes
6all into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
G6ar to the north he has gone,G continued the priest# Gbut in autumn,
8A9
%hen the chase is done, will return again to the (ission.G
Then 5vangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive'
GLet me remain with thee, for m soul is sad and aIicted.G
So seemed it wise and well unto all# and betimes on the morrow,
(ounting his (e;ican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
Homeward Basil returned, and 5vangeline staed at the (ission.
Slowl, slowl, slowl the das succeeded each other'
Das and weeks and months# and the :elds of mai,e that were springing
0reen from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,
8A8
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
?loisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged b s=uirrels.
Then in the golden weather the mai,e was busked, 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!:eld.
5ven the blood!red ear to 5vangeline brought not her lover.
G1atience*G the priest would sa# Ghave faith, and th praer 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#
It is the compass!)ower, that the :nger of 0od has suspended
8A>
Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveler-s <ourne
+ver the sea!like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,
0a and lu;uriant )owers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
But the beguile us, and lead us astra, and their odor is deadl.
+nl this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
?rown us with asphodel )owers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe.G
So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter'et 0abriel came not#
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
8A@
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, et 0abriel came not.
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
6ar to the north and east, it said, in the (ichigan forests,
0abriel had his lodge b the banks of the Saginaw river.
&nd, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
Saing a sad farewell, 5vangeline went from the (ission.
%hen over wear was, b long and perilous marches,
She had attained at length the depths of the (ichigan forests,
6ound she the hunter-s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin*
8AA
Thus did the long sad ears glide on, and in seasons and places
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden#
/ow in the tents of grace of the meek (oravian (issions,
/ow in the nois camps and the battle!:elds of the arm,
/ow in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities,
Like a phantom she came, and passed awa unremembered.
6air was she and oung, when in hope began the long <ourne#
6aded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
5ach succeeding ear stole something awa from her beaut,
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
8AB
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gra o-er her forehead,
Dawn of another life, that broke o-er her earthl hori,on,
&s in the eastern sk the :rst faint streaks of the morning.
1&4T TH5 S5?+/D
7
I/ that delightful land which is washed b the Delaware-s waters,
0uarding in slvan shades the name of 1enn the apostle,
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the cit he founded.
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beaut,
&nd the streets still re!echo the names of the trees of the forest,
&s if the fain would appease the Drads whose haunts the molested.
8AD
There from the troubled sea had 5vangeline landed, an e;ile,
6inding among the children of 1enn a home and a countr.
There old 4ene Leblanc had died# and when he departed,
Saw at his side onl one of all his hundred descendants.
Something at least there was in the friendl streets of the cit,
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a strangerJ
&nd her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Kuakers,
6or it recalled the past, the old &cadian countr,
%here all men were e=ual, and all were brothers and sisters.
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
8AF
5nded, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
&s from a mountain-s top the rain mists of the morning
4oll awa, 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 pathwa
%hich she had climbed so far, ling smooth and fair in the distance.
0abriel was not forgotten. %ithin her heart was his image,
?lothed in the beaut of love and outh, as last she beheld him,
8B9
+nl more beautiful made b his deathlike silence and absence.
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
+ver him ears had no power# he was not changed, but trans:gured#
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent#
1atience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
So was her love di3used, but, like to some odorous spices,
Su3ered no waste nor loss, though :lling the air with aroma.
+ther hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
(eekl, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
8B8
Thus man ears she lived as a Sister of (erc# fre=uenting
Lonel and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the cit,
%here distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,
%here disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
/ight after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
Loud, through the gust streets, that all was well in the cit,
High at some lonel window he saw the light of her taper.
Da after da, in the gra of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
1lodded the 0erman farmer, with )owers and fruits for the market,
(et he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.
8B>
Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the cit,
1resaged b wondrous signs, and mostl b )ocks of wild pigeons,
Darkening the sun in their )ight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
&nd, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
6looding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in a meadow,
So death )ooded life, and o-er)owing its natural margin,
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of e;istence.
%ealth had no power to bribe, nor beaut to charm, the oppressor#
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger'
+nl, alas* the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
8B@
?rept awa to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless#
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands'
/ow the cit surrounds it# but still with its gatewa and wicket
(eek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
Softl the words of the Lord'GThe poor e alwas have with ou.G
Thither, b night and b da, came the Sister of (erc. The ding
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
0leams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
Such as the artist paints o-er the brows of saints and apostles,
+r such as hangs b night o-er a cit seen at a distance.
8BA
Cnto their ees it seemed the lamps of the cit celestial,
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.
Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
%ending her =uiet wa, she entered the door of the almshouse.
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of )owers in the garden#
&nd she paused on her wa to gather the fairest among them,
That the ding once more might re<oice in their fragrance and beaut.
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled b the east wind,
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfr of ?hrist ?hurch,
8BB
%hile, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
Sounds of psalms, that were sung b the Swedes in their church at %icaco.
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit#
Something within her said'G&t length th trials are ended#G
&nd, with a light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
/oiselessl moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
(oistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
?losing the sightless ees of the dead, and concealing their faces,
%here on their pallets the la, like drifts of snow b the roadside.
(an a languid head, upraised as 5vangeline entered,
8B"
Turned on its pillow of pain to ga,e while she passed, for her presence
6ell on their hearts like a ra of the sun on the walls of a prison.
&nd, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
Laing his hand upon man a heart, had healed it forever.
(an familiar forms had disappeared in the night!time#
7acant their places were, or :lled alread b strangers.
Suddenl, as if arrested b fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
4an through her frame, and, forgotten, the )owerets dropped from her
:ngers,
8B.
&nd from her ees and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then there escaped from her lips a cr of such terrible anguish,
That the ding heard it, and started up from their pillows.
+n the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and gra were the locks that shaded his temples#
But, as he la in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood#
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are ding.
Hot and red on his lips still burned the )ush of the fever,
&s if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
8BD
That the &ngel of Death might see the sign, and pass over,
(otionless, senseless, ding, he la, and his spirit e;hausted
Seemed to be sinking down to in:nite depths in the darkness,
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cr of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
%hispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint!like,
G0abriel* + m beloved*G and died awa into silence.
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood#
0reen &cadian meadows, with slvan rivers among them,
8BF
7illage, and mountain, and woodlands# and, walking under their shadow,
&s in the das of her outh, 5vangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his ees# and as slowl he lifted his eelids,
7anished the vision awa, but 5vangeline knelt b his bedside.
7ainl he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have
spoken.
7ainl he strove to rise# and 5vangeline, kneeling beside him,
Eissed his ding lips, and laid his head on her bosom
Sweet was the light of his ees# but it suddenl sank into darkness,
&s when a lamp is blown out b a gust of wind at a casement.
8"9
&ll was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
&ll the aching of heart, the restless, unsatis:ed longing,
&ll the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience*
&nd, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
(eekl she bowed her own, and murmured, G6ather, I thank thee*G
8"8
Still stands the forest primeval# but far awa from its shadow,
Side b side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Cnder the humble walls of the little ?atholic churchard,
In the heart of the cit, the lie, unknown and unnoticed#
Dail the tides of life go ebbing and )owing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
8">
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are bus,
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
Thousands of wear feet, where theirs have completed their <ourne*
Still stands the forest primeval# but under the shade of its branches
Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
+nl along the shore of the mournful and mist &tlantic
Linger a few &cadian peasants, whose fathers from e;ile
%andered back to their native land to die in its bosom#
In the :sherman-s cot the wheel and the loom are still bus#
8"@
(aidens still wear their /orman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
&nd b the evening :re repeat 5vangeline-s stor,
%hile from its rock caverns the deep!voiced, neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.