III.

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,150Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of SeptemberWrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey155Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters assertedCold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape160Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,165All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sunLooked with the eye of love through the golden vapours around him;While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forestFlashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.170Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.175Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,180Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.185Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour.Cheerily neighed the steeds with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,190Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,195Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmerSat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths200Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,Nodding and mocking along the wall with gestures fantastic,Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chairLaughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser205Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before himSang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.Close at her father’s side was the gentle Evangeline seated,210Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner behind her.Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,Followed the old man’s song, and united the fragments together.As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,215Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,220And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.“Welcome!” the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,“Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settleClose by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;225Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the curlingSmoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face gleamsRound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.”Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:—230“Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled withGloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.”Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,235And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:—“Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchorsBide in the Gaspereau’s mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.What their design may be is unknown; but all are commandedOn the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty’s mandate240Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the meantimeMany surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.”Then made answer the farmer:—“Perhaps some friendlier purposeBrings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in EnglandBy untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,245And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.”“Not so thinketh the folk in the village,” said warmly the blacksmith,Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:—“Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal.Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,250Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;Nothing is left but the blacksmith’s sledge and the scythe of the mower.”Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:—“Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,255Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean,Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy’s cannon.Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrowFall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village260Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and ink-horn.Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?”As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover’s,265Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,And as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.175Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,180Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.185Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour.Cheerily neighed the steeds with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,190Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,195Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmerSat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths200Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,Nodding and mocking along the wall with gestures fantastic,Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chairLaughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser205Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before himSang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.Close at her father’s side was the gentle Evangeline seated,210Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner behind her.Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,Followed the old man’s song, and united the fragments together.As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,215Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,220And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.“Welcome!” the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,“Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settleClose by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;225Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the curlingSmoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face gleamsRound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.”Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:—230“Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled withGloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.”Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,235And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:—“Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchorsBide in the Gaspereau’s mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.What their design may be is unknown; but all are commandedOn the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty’s mandate240Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the meantimeMany surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.”Then made answer the farmer:—“Perhaps some friendlier purposeBrings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in EnglandBy untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,245And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.”“Not so thinketh the folk in the village,” said warmly the blacksmith,Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:—“Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal.Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,250Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;Nothing is left but the blacksmith’s sledge and the scythe of the mower.”Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:—“Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,255Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean,Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy’s cannon.Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrowFall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village260Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and ink-horn.Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?”As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover’s,265Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,And as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.

Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung270Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bowsSat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundredChildren’s children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,275Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and child-like.He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,280And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristenedDied, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,285And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,“Father Leblanc,” he exclaimed, “thou hast heard the talk in the village,290And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand.”Then with modest demeanour made answer the notary public,—“Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;And what their errand may be I know no better than others.Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention295Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?”“God’s name!” shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;“Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!”But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,—300“Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justiceTriumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.”This was the old man’s favourite tale, and he loved to repeat itWhen his neighbours complained that any injustice was done them.305“Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,Raised aloft on a column a brazen statue of JusticeStood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presidedOver the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.310Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mightyRuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman’s palace315That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicionFell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,320Lo! o’er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunderSmote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left handDown on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was in-woven.”325Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmithStood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapoursFreeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,330Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewedNut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pré;While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn,Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.335Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the tableThree times the old man’s fee in solid pieces of silver;And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and bridegroom,340Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men345Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manœuvre,Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window’s embrasure,Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding the moon riseOver the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.350Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfryRang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightwayRose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.355Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-stepLingered long in Evangeline’s heart, and filled it with gladness.Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.360Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-pressAmple and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded365Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlightStreamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden370Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood withNaked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.375Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadnessPassed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlightFlitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon passForth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,380As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,330Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewedNut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pré;While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn,Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.335Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the tableThree times the old man’s fee in solid pieces of silver;And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and bridegroom,340Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men345Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manœuvre,Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window’s embrasure,Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding the moon riseOver the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.350Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfryRang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightwayRose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.355Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-stepLingered long in Evangeline’s heart, and filled it with gladness.Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.360Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-pressAmple and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded365Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlightStreamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden370Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood withNaked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.375Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadnessPassed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlightFlitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon passForth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,380As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.

blomidon

BLOMIDON—LOW TIDE

Showing the path of the retreating water from the land. At high tide the water reaches up the cliffs, covering marsh and filling stream . . . .

gaspereau river

GASPEREAU RIVER AND BLOMIDON

Scene of the Deportation.

stone cross

THE STONE CROSS

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré.Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour385Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.Now from the country around, from the farms and neighbouring hamlets,Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folkMade the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,390Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were silenced.Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doorsSat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.395Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,All things were held in common, and what one had was another’s.Yet under Benedict’s roof hospitality seemed more abundant:For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;400Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladnessFell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;405There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-whiteHair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler410Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances415Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict’s daughter!Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous420Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstonesGarlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them425Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangorEchoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,—Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portalClosed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,430Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.“You are convened this day,” he said, “by his Majesty’s orders.Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindnessLet your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temperPainful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.435Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch:Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kindsForfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this provinceBe transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell thereEver as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!440Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty’s pleasure!”As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstonesBeats down the farmer’s corn in the field, and shatters his windows,Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,445Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then roseLouder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.450Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecationsRang through the house of prayer; and high o’er the heads of the othersRose with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,—455“Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!”More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldierSmote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,460Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father FelicianEntered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silenceAll that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful465Spake he, as, after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.“What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught you,Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?470Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane itThus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?Lo! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you!See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!475Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ‘O Father, forgive them!’Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,Let us repeat it now, and say, ‘O Father, forgive them!’”Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peopleSank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,480While they repeated his prayer, and said, “O Father, forgive them!”Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar;Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded.Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave MariaSang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,485Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sidesWandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.Long at her father’s door Evangeline stood, with her right handShielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,490Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed eachPeasant’s cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild flowers;There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy;495And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer.Thus did Evangeline wait at her father’s door, as the sunsetThrew the long shadows of trees o’er the broad ambrosial meadows.Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen.And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,—500Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness and patience!Then all forgetful of self she wandered into the village,Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,As o’er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed.Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.505Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapoursVeiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows510Stood she, and listened and looked, until overcome by emotion,“Gabriel!” cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answerCame from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted.515Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fallLoud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder520Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world He created!Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;405There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-whiteHair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler410Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances415Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict’s daughter!Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!

So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous420Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstonesGarlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them425Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangorEchoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,—Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portalClosed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,430Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.“You are convened this day,” he said, “by his Majesty’s orders.Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindnessLet your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temperPainful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.435Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch:Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kindsForfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this provinceBe transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell thereEver as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!440Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty’s pleasure!”As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstonesBeats down the farmer’s corn in the field, and shatters his windows,Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,445Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then roseLouder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.450Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecationsRang through the house of prayer; and high o’er the heads of the othersRose with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,—455“Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!”More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldierSmote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,460Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father FelicianEntered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silenceAll that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful465Spake he, as, after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.“What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught you,Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?470Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane itThus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?Lo! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you!See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!475Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ‘O Father, forgive them!’Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,Let us repeat it now, and say, ‘O Father, forgive them!’”Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peopleSank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,480While they repeated his prayer, and said, “O Father, forgive them!”

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar;Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded.Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave MariaSang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,485Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sidesWandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.Long at her father’s door Evangeline stood, with her right handShielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,490Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed eachPeasant’s cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild flowers;There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy;495And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer.Thus did Evangeline wait at her father’s door, as the sunsetThrew the long shadows of trees o’er the broad ambrosial meadows.Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen.And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,—500Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness and patience!Then all forgetful of self she wandered into the village,Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,As o’er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed.Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.505Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapoursVeiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows510Stood she, and listened and looked, until overcome by emotion,“Gabriel!” cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answerCame from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted.515Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fallLoud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder520Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world He created!Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.

Four times the sun had risen and set, and now on the fifth dayCheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farmhouse.525Soon o’er the yellow fields, in silent mournful procession,Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.530Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachPiled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;535All day long the wains came labouring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o’er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doorsOpened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession540Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descendedDown from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.545Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:—“Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!”Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside550Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above themMingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,—Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,555And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.Tears then filled her eyes, and eagerly running to meet him,Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,—“Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one anotherNothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!”560Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her fatherSaw she, slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstepHeavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,565Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth moved on that mournful procession.There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusionWives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children570Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean575Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Further back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,580Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;585Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their udders:Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,—Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.590But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,595Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita’s desolate sea-shore.Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,600E’en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.“Benedicite!” murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.605More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accentsFaltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them610Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-redMoon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o’er the horizonTitan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,615Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame wereThrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.620Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-topsStarted the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,625“We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!”Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattleCame on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments630Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Nebraska,When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horsesBroke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o’er the meadows.635Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maidenGazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shoreMotionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.640Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maidenKnelt at her father’s side, and wailed aloud in her terror.Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.645Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.650Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,—“Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier seasonBrings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.”Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,655Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré.And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,Lo! with a mournful sound like the voice of a vast congregation,Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.660’Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbour,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.665

Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachPiled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;535All day long the wains came labouring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o’er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doorsOpened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession540Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descendedDown from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.545Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:—“Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!”Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside550Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above themMingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,—Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,555And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.Tears then filled her eyes, and eagerly running to meet him,Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,—“Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one anotherNothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!”560Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her fatherSaw she, slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstepHeavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,565Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth moved on that mournful procession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusionWives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children570Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean575Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Further back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,580Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;585Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their udders:Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,—Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.590

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,595Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita’s desolate sea-shore.Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,600E’en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.“Benedicite!” murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.605More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accentsFaltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them610Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-redMoon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o’er the horizonTitan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,615Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame wereThrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.620Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-topsStarted the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,625“We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!”Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattleCame on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments630Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Nebraska,When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horsesBroke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o’er the meadows.635

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maidenGazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shoreMotionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.640Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maidenKnelt at her father’s side, and wailed aloud in her terror.Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.645Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.650Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,—“Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier seasonBrings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.”Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,655Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré.And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,Lo! with a mournful sound like the voice of a vast congregation,Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.660’Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbour,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.665

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