II.

Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré,When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,Bearing a nation, with all its household goods, into exile,Exile without an end, and without an example in story.Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;670Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeastStrikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,—From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters675Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.680Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,Lowly and meek in spirit and patiently suffering all things.Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathwayMarked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,685Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,As the emigrant’s way o’er the Western desert is marked byCamp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,690Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descendedInto the east again, from whence it late had arisen.Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,She would commence again her endless search and endeavour;695Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosomHe was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.Sometimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.700Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.“Gabriel Lajeunesse!” they said; “Oh, yes! we have seen him.He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers.”705“Gabriel Lajeunesse!” said others; “Oh, yes! we have seen him.He is a voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.”Then would they say, “Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? othersWho have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?710Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary’s son, who has loved theeMany a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine’s tresses.”Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, “I cannot!Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.715For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.”Thereupon the priest, her friend and father confessor,Said, with a smile, “O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;720If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returningBack to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.Patience; accomplish thy labour; accomplish thy work of affection!Sorrow and silence are strong and patient endurance is godlike.725Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made godlike,Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!”Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline laboured 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, “Despair not!”730Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer’s footsteps;—Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;But as a traveller follows a streamlet’s course through the valley:735Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its waterHere and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;Happy, at length, if he find a spot where it reaches an outlet.740

evangeline

EVANGELINEFrom the painting.

covenanter church

SCOTCH COVENANTER CHURCHBuilt at Grand-Pré—1805.

village smithy

VILLAGE SMITHY—GRAND-PRÉ.

It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen,It was a band of exiles; a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked745Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmersOn the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.750With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.Onward o’er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests,Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike755Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-barsLay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,760Shaded by china-trees in the midst of luxuriant gardens,Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins and dove-cots.They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.765They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypressMet in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air770Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the heronsHome to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,775Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;And o’er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,—Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.780As, at the tramp of a horse’s hoof on the turf of the prairies,Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.But Evangeline’s heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly785Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,790And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventureSailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to the forest.Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.795Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,800Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,Far off,—indistinct,—as of wave or wind in the forest,Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.805Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before themLay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulationsMade by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotusLifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.810Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.815Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevine820Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven825Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islandsDarted a light, swift boat, that sped away o’er the waterUrged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.Northward its prow was turned to the land of the bison and beaver.830At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn.Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadnessSomewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.835Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos;So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows;All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen were the sleepers;Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.840Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance.As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maidenSaid with a sigh to the friendly priest, “O Father Felician!Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.845Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?”Then, with a blush, she added, “Alas for my credulous fancy!Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning.”But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,—850“Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning,Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surfaceIs as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the south-ward,855On the banks of the Têche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheep-fold.Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;Under the feet a garden of flowers and the bluest of heavens860Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana.”With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizonLike a magician extended his golden wand o’er the landscape;865Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forestSeemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.Filled was Evangeline’s heart with inexpressible sweetness.870Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feelingGlowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,875That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madnessSeemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,880As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-topsShakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,885Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring dwelling;—Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,790And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventureSailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to the forest.Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.795Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,800Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,Far off,—indistinct,—as of wave or wind in the forest,Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.805

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before themLay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulationsMade by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotusLifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.810Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.815Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevine820Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven825Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.

Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islandsDarted a light, swift boat, that sped away o’er the waterUrged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.Northward its prow was turned to the land of the bison and beaver.830At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn.Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadnessSomewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.835Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos;So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows;All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen were the sleepers;Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.840Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance.As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maidenSaid with a sigh to the friendly priest, “O Father Felician!Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.845Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?”Then, with a blush, she added, “Alas for my credulous fancy!Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning.”But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,—850“Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning,Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surfaceIs as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the south-ward,855On the banks of the Têche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheep-fold.Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;Under the feet a garden of flowers and the bluest of heavens860Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana.”

With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizonLike a magician extended his golden wand o’er the landscape;865Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forestSeemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.Filled was Evangeline’s heart with inexpressible sweetness.870Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feelingGlowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,875That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madnessSeemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,880As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-topsShakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,885Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring dwelling;—Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.

Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed by oaks from whose branchesGarlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,890Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A gardenGirded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbersHewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,895Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,Stationed the dove-cots were, as love’s perpetual symbol,Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.900Silence reigned o’er the place. The line of shadow and sunshineRan near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expandingInto the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway905Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvasHanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines.910Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrupsSat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombreroGazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.915Round about him were numberless herds of kine that were grazingQuietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshnessThat uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expandingFully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded920Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattleRose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o’er the prairie,And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.925Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the gardenSaw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forwardPushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.930Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.There in an arbour of roses with endless question and answerGave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings935Stole o’er the maiden’s heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,Broke the silence and said, “If you came by the Atchafalaya,How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel’s boat on the bayous?”Over Evangeline’s face at the words of Basil a shade passed.Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,940“Gone? is Gabriel gone?” and, concealing her face on his shoulder,All her o’erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.Then the good Basil said,—and his voice grew blithe as he said it,—“Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.945Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spiritCould no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,950Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent himUnto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;955He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning,We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.”Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,Borne aloft on his comrades’ arms, came Michael the fiddler.960Long under Basil’s roof had he lived, like a god on Olympus,Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.“Long live Michael,” they cried, “our brave Acadian minstrel!”As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway965Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old manKindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips.Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,970All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchial demeanour;Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.Thus they ascended the steps, and crossing the breezy veranda,975Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of BasilWaited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.All was silent without, and illuming the landscape with silver,Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,980Brighter than these, shone the faces of friend in the glimmering lamplight.Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsmanPoured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:—985“Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer;Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.990All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass growsMore in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timberWith a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.995After your houses are built and your fields are yellow with harvests,No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.”Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,1000So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils.But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:—“Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,1005Cured by wearing a spider hung round one’s neck in a nutshell!”Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approachingSounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters,Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herdsman.1010Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours:Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding1015From the accordant strings of Michael’s melodious fiddle,Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddeningWhirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.1020Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsmanSat, conversing together of past and present and future;While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within herOlden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the musicHeard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness1025Came o’er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the riverFell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.1030Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the gardenPoured out their souls in odours, that were their prayers and confessionsUnto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical1035Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees,Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-fliesGleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.1040Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,1045Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my beloved!Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!1050Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour,Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?”Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill soundedLike a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighbouring thickets,1055Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.“Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the gardenBathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses1060With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.“Farewell!” said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;“See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming.”“Farewell!” answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended1065Down to the river’s brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,1070Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertainRumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord1075That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrupsSat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombreroGazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.915Round about him were numberless herds of kine that were grazingQuietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshnessThat uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expandingFully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded920Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattleRose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o’er the prairie,And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.925Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the gardenSaw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forwardPushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.930Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.There in an arbour of roses with endless question and answerGave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings935Stole o’er the maiden’s heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,Broke the silence and said, “If you came by the Atchafalaya,How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel’s boat on the bayous?”Over Evangeline’s face at the words of Basil a shade passed.Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,940“Gone? is Gabriel gone?” and, concealing her face on his shoulder,All her o’erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.Then the good Basil said,—and his voice grew blithe as he said it,—“Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.945Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spiritCould no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,950Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent himUnto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;955He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning,We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.”

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,Borne aloft on his comrades’ arms, came Michael the fiddler.960Long under Basil’s roof had he lived, like a god on Olympus,Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.“Long live Michael,” they cried, “our brave Acadian minstrel!”As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway965Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old manKindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips.Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,970All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchial demeanour;Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.Thus they ascended the steps, and crossing the breezy veranda,975Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of BasilWaited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.All was silent without, and illuming the landscape with silver,Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,980Brighter than these, shone the faces of friend in the glimmering lamplight.Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsmanPoured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:—985“Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer;Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.990All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass growsMore in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timberWith a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.995After your houses are built and your fields are yellow with harvests,No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.”Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,1000So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils.But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:—“Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,1005Cured by wearing a spider hung round one’s neck in a nutshell!”Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approachingSounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters,Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herdsman.1010Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours:Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding1015From the accordant strings of Michael’s melodious fiddle,Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddeningWhirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.1020

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsmanSat, conversing together of past and present and future;While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within herOlden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the musicHeard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness1025Came o’er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the riverFell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.1030Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the gardenPoured out their souls in odours, that were their prayers and confessionsUnto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical1035Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees,Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-fliesGleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.1040Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,1045Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel! O my beloved!Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!1050Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour,Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?”Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill soundedLike a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighbouring thickets,1055Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.“Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”

Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the gardenBathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses1060With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.“Farewell!” said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;“See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming.”“Farewell!” answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended1065Down to the river’s brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,1070Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertainRumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord1075That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountainsLift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,1080Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant’s wagon,Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains,Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,1085Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,1090Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael’s children,1095Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trailsCircles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;1100Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side.And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.1105Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and BasilFollowed his flying steps, and thought each day to o’ertake him.Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire1110Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata MorganaShowed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.1115

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and BasilFollowed his flying steps, and thought each day to o’ertake him.Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire1110Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata MorganaShowed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.1115

evangeline statue

THE EVANGELINE STATUE

The statue stands upon the old road by which the people reached the church. It is the work of Philippe Hebert, himself a descendant of the Acadian family of the name . . . .

acadian willow-trees

ORIGINAL ACADIAN WILLOW-TREES.

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently enteredInto the little camp an Indian woman, whose featuresWore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,1120Where her Canadian husband, a coureur-des-bois, had been murdered.Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcomeGave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among themOn the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,1125Worn with the long day’s march and the chase of the deer and the bison,Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-lightFlashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in the blankets,Then at the door of Evangeline’s tent she sat and repeatedSlowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,1130All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that anotherHapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman’s compassion,Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,1135She in turn related her love and all its disasters.Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had endedStill was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horrorPassed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,1140But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,1145That 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,And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened1150To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around herSeemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendourTouching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.1155With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branchesSwayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline’s heart, but a secret,Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.1160It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spiritsSeemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a momentThat, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the Shawnee1165Said, as they journeyed along,—“On the western slope of these mountainsDwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him.”Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,1170“Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!”Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.1175Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastenedHigh on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines,Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches1180Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen1185Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade themWelcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.1190Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:—“Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seatedOn this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,1195Told me the same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!”Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;But on Evangeline’s heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakesFall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.“Far to the north he has gone,” continued the priest; “but in autumn,1200When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.”Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,“Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.”So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,1205Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,—Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springingGreen from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving about her,Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming1210Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidensBlushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field.Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.1215“Patience!” the priest would say; “have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow,See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet;This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has plantedHere in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller’s journey1220Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller fragrance,But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour is deadly.Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter1225Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe.”So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter—yet Gabriel came not;Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebirdSounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was wafted1230Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom.Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River.And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.1235When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,Found she the hunter’s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and placesDivers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;—1240Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;1245Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o’er her forehead.Dawn of another life, that broke o’er her earthly horizon,1250As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the Shawnee1165Said, as they journeyed along,—“On the western slope of these mountainsDwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him.”Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,1170“Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!”Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.1175Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastenedHigh on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines,Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches1180Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen1185Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade themWelcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.1190Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:—“Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seatedOn this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,1195Told me the same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!”Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;But on Evangeline’s heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakesFall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.“Far to the north he has gone,” continued the priest; “but in autumn,1200When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.”Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,“Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.”So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,1205Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,—Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springingGreen from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving about her,Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming1210Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidensBlushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field.Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.1215“Patience!” the priest would say; “have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow,See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet;This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has plantedHere in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller’s journey1220Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller fragrance,But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour is deadly.Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter1225Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe.”

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter—yet Gabriel came not;Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebirdSounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was wafted1230Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom.Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River.And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.1235When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,Found she the hunter’s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and placesDivers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;—1240Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;1245Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o’er her forehead.Dawn of another life, that broke o’er her earthly horizon,1250As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.

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