Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
¶[7807-/882]
A Psalm of LifeWhat the Heart of the Young ManSaid to the Psalmist
¶TELL me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.
¶Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.[1265]Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.
¶Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.
¶In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven catde!Be a hero in the strife!
¶Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!
¶Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;
¶Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.
¶Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.
The Light of Stars
¶THE night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.[1266]There is no light in earth or heavenBut the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.
¶Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?Oh no! from that blue tent aboveA hero's armor gleams.
¶And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skies,The shield of that red star.
¶0 star of strength! I see thee standAnd smile upon my pain;Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,And I am strong again.
¶Within my breast there is no lightBut the cold light of stars;I give the first watch of the nightTo the red planet Mars.
¶The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene, and resolute, and still,And calm, and self-possessed.
¶And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,That readest this brief psalm,As one by one thy hopes depart,Be resolute and calm.
¶Oh, fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know erelong,Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.
Hymn to the Night
¶Aairaait], TPIXXIOROSI HEARD the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!
¶I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o'er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.
¶I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet's rhymes.
¶From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—From those deep cisterns flows.
¶O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.
¶Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best-beloved Night!
Footsteps of Angels
¶WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,And the voices of the NightWake the better soul, that slumbered,To a holy, calm delight;[1268]Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlor wall;
¶Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door;The beloved, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more;
¶He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the roadside fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!
¶They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!
¶And with them the Being Beauteous,Who unto my youth was given,More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.
¶With a slow and noiseless footstepComes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gende hand in mine.
¶And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.
¶Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.[1269]Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid aside,If I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!
The Wreck of the Hesperus
¶IT was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.
¶Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.
¶The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.
¶Then up and spake an old Sailor,Had sailed to the Spanish Main,'I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.
¶'Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!'The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.
¶Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast,The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.
¶Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length.[1270]'Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow.'
¶He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.
¶'O father! I hear the church-bells ring,Oh say, what may it be?'' 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!'—And he steered for the open sea.
¶'O father! I hear the sound of guns,Oh say, what may it be?''Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!'
¶'O father. I see a gleaming light,Oh say, what may it be?'But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.
¶Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.
¶Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat saved she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.
¶And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.[1271]And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
¶The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.
¶She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.
¶Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
¶At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.
¶The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,On the billows fall and rise.
¶Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!
The Village Blacksmith
¶UNDER a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armAre strong as iron bands.[1272]His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.
¶Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.
¶And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that fly,Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
¶He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter's voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice..
¶It sounds to him like her mother's voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once moreHow in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.
¶Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night's repose.[1273]Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.
779 SerenadeFrom 'the Spanish Student'
¶STARS of the summer night!Far in yon azure deeps,Hide, hide your golden light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
¶Moon of the summer night!Far down yon western steeps,Sink, sink in silver light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
¶Wind of the summer night!Where yonder woodbine creeps,Fold, fold thy pinions light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
¶Dreams of the summer night!Tell her, her lover keepsWatch! while in slumbers lightShe sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
780 the Rainy Day
¶THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;[1274]The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.
¶My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.
¶Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary.
781 THE DAY Is DONE
¶THE day is done, and the darknessFalls from the wings of Night,As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in his flight.
¶I see the lights of the villageGleam through the rain and the mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er meThat my soul cannot resist:
¶A feeling of sadness and longing,That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow onlyAs the mist resembles the rain.
¶Come, read to me some poem,Some simple and heartfelt lay,That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the thoughts of day.
¶Not from the grand old masters,Not from the bards sublime,Whose distant footsteps echoThrough the corridors of Time.[1275]For, like strains of martial music,Their mighty thoughts suggestLife's endless toil and endeavor;And to-night I long for rest.
¶Read from some humbler poet,Whose songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start;
¶Who, through long days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,Still heard in his soul the musicOf wonderful melodies.
¶Such songs have power to quietThe restless pulse of care,And come like the benedictionThat follows after prayer.
¶Then read from the treasured volumeThe poem of thy choice,And lend to the rhyme of the poetThe beauty of thy voice.
¶And the night shall be filled with music,And the cares, that infest the day,Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal away.
The Bridge
¶I STOOD on the bridge at midnight,As the clocks were striking the hour,And the moon rose o'er the city,Behind the dark church-tower.
¶I saw her bright reflectionIn the waters under me,Like a golden goblet fallingAnd sinking into the sea.[1276]And far in the hazy distanceOf that lovely night in June,The blaze of the flaming furnaceGleamed redder than the moon.
¶Among the long, black raftersThe wavering shadows lay,And the current that came from the oceanSeemed to lift and bear them away;
¶As, sweeping and eddying through them,Rose the belated tide,And, streaming into the moonlight,The seaweed floated wide.
¶And like those waters rushingAmong the wooden piers,A flood of thoughts came o'er meThat filled my eyes with tears.
¶How often, oh how often,In the days that had gone by,I had stood on that bridge at midnightAnd gazed on that wave and sky!
¶How often, oh how often,I had wished that the ebbing tideWould bear me away on its bosomO'er the ocean wild and wide!
¶For my heart was hot and restless,And my life was full of care,And the burden laid upon meSeemed greater than I could bear.
¶But now it has fallen from me,It is buried in the sea;And only the sorrow of othersThrows its shadow over me,[1277]Yet whenever I cross the riverOn its bridge with wooden piers,Like the odor of brine from the oceanComes the thought of other years.
¶And I think how many thousandsOf care-encumbered men,Each bearing his burden of sorrow,Have crossed the bridge since then.
¶I see the long processionStill passing to and fro,The young heart hot and restless,And the old subdued and slow!
¶And forever and forever,As long as the river flows,As long as the heart has passions,As long as life has woes;
¶The moon and its broken reflectionAnd its shadows shall appear,As the symbol of love in heaven,And its wavering image here.
783 Resignation
¶THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,But has one vacant chair!
¶The air is full of farewells to the dying,And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!
¶Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.[1278]We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.
¶There is no Death! What seems so is transition;This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.
¶She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.
¶In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives whom we call dead.
¶Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.
¶Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken,The bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspok<May reach her where she lives.
¶Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;
¶But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.[1279]And though at times impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—
¶We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.
J84 Children
¶COME to me, O ye children!For I hear you at your play,And the questions that perplexed meHave vanished quite away.
¶Ye open the eastern windows,That look towards the sun,Where thoughts are singing swallowsAnd the brooks of morning run.
¶In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,But in mine is the wind of AutumnAnd the first fall of the snow.
¶Ah! what would the world be to usIf the children were no more?We should dread the desert behind usWorse than the dark before.
¶What the leaves are to the forest,With light and air for food,Ere their sweet and tender juicesHave been hardened into wood,—
¶That to the world are children;Through them it feels the glowOf a brighter and sunnier climateThan reaches the trunks below.[1280]Come to me, O ye children!And whisper in my earWhat the birds and the winds are singingIn your sunny atmosphere.
¶For what are all our contrivings,And the wisdom of our books,When compared with your caresses,And the gladness of your looks?
¶Ye are better than all the balladsThat ever were sung or said;For ye are living poems,And all the rest are dead.
785 the Building of the Ship
¶'BUILD me straight, O worthy Master!Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,That shall laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!'
¶The merchant's wordDelighted the Master heard;For his heart was in his work, and the heartGiveth grace unto every Art.A quiet smile played round his lips,As the eddies and dimples of the tidePlay round the bows of shipsThat steadily at anchor ride.And with a voice that was full of glee,He answered, 'Erelong we will launchA vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch,As ever weathered a wintry sea!'And first with nicest skill and art,Perfect and finished in every part,A little model the Master wrought,Which should be to the larger planWhat the child is to the man,Its counterpart in miniature;[1281]That with a hand more swift and sureThe greater labor might be broughtTo answer to his inward thought.And as he labored, his mind ran o'erThe various ships that were built of yore,And above them all, and strangest of allTowered the Great Harry, crank and tall,Whose picture was hanging on the wall,With bows and stern raised high in air,And balconies hanging here and there,And signal lanterns and flags afloat,And eight round towers, like those that frownFrom some old castle, looking downUpon the drawbridge and the moat.And he said with a smile, 'Our ship, I wis,Shall be of another form than this!'It was of another form, indeed;Built for freight, and yet for speed,A beautiful and gallant craft;Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,Pressing down upon sail and mast,Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;Broad in the beam, but sloping aftWith graceful curve and slow degrees,That she might be docile to the helm,And that the currents of parted seas,Closing behind, with mighty force,Might aid and not impede her course.
¶In the ship-yard stood the Master,With the model of the vessel,That should laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
¶Covering many a rood of ground,Lay the timber piled around;Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,And scattered here and there, with these,The knarred and crooked cedar knees;Brought from regions far away,[1282]From Pascagoula's sunny bay,And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!Ah! what a wondrous thing it isTo note how many wheels of toilOne thought, one word, can set in motion!There's not a ship that sails the ocean,But every climate, every soil,Must bring its tribute, great or small,And help to build the wooden wall!
¶The sun was rising o'er the sea,And long the level shadows lay,As if they, too, the beams would beOf some great, airy argosy,Framed and launched in a single day.That silent architect, the sun,Had hewn and laid them every one,Ere the work of man was yet begun.Beside the Master, when he spoke,A youth, against an anchor leaning,Listened, to catch his slightest meaning,Only the long waves, as they brokeIn ripples on the pebbly beach,Interrupted the old man's speech.
¶Beautiful they were, in sooth,The old man and the fiery youth!The old man, in whose busy brainMany a ship that sailed the mainWas modelled o'er and o'er again;The fiery youth, who was to beThe heir of his dexterity,The heir of his house, and his daughter's handWhen he had built and launched from landWhat the elder head had planned.
¶'Thus,' said he, 'will we build this ship!Lay square the blocks upon the slip,And follow well this plan of mine.Choose the timbers with greatest care;[1283]Of all that is unsound beware;For only what is sound and strongTo this vessel shall belong.Cedar of Maine and Georgia pineHere together shall combine.A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,And the UNION be her name!For the day that gives her to the seaShall give my daughter unto thee!'
¶The Master's wordEnraptured the young man heard;And as he turned his face aside,With a look of joy and a thrill of prideStanding beforeHer father's door,He saw the form of his promised bride.The sun shone on her golden hair,And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.Like a beauteous barge was she,Still at rest on the sandy beach,Just beyond the billow's reach;But heWas the restless, seething, stormy sea!Ah, how skilful grows the handThat obeyeth Love's command!It is the heart, and not the brain,That to the highest doth attain,And he who followeth Love's behestFar excelleth all the rest!
¶Thus with the rising of the sunWas the noble task begun,And soon throughout the ship-yard's boundsWere heard the intermingled soundsOf axes and of mallets, pliedWith vigorous arms on every side;Plied so defdy and so well,That, ere the shadows of evening fell,[1284]The keel of oak for a noble ship,Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,Was lying ready, and stretched alongThe blocks, well placed upon the slip.Happy, thrice happy, every oneWho sees his labor well begun,And not perplexed and multiplied,By idly waiting for time and tide!
¶And when the hot, long day was o'er,The young man at the Master's doorSat with the maiden calm and still,And within the porch, a little moreRemoved beyond the evening chill,The father sat, and told them talesOf wrecks in the great September gales,Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,And ships that never came back again,The chance and change of a sailor's life,Want and plenty, rest and strife,His roving fancy, like the wind,That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,And the magic charm of foreign lands,With shadows of palms, and shining sands,Where the tumbling surf,O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
¶And the trembling maiden held her breathAt the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,With all its terror and mystery,The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death,That divides and yet unites mankind!And whenever the old man paused, a gleamFrom the bowl of his pipe would awhile illumeThe silent group in the twilight gloom,And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;And for a moment one might markWhat had been hidden by the dark,That the head of the maiden lay at rest,Tenderly, on the young man's breast![1285]Day by day the vessel grew,With timbers fashioned strong and true,Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee,Till, framed with perfect symmetry,A skeleton ship rose up to view!And around the bows and along the sideThe heavy hammers and mallets plied,Till after many a week, at length,Wonderful for form and strength,Sublime in its enormous bulk,Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seethingCaldron, that glowed,And overflowedWith the black tar, heated for the sheathing.And amid the clamorsOf clattering hammers,He who listened heard now and thenThe song of the Master and his men:—
¶'Build me straight, O worthy Master,Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,That shall laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!'
¶With oaken brace and copper band,Lay the rudder on the sand,That, like a thought, should have controlOver the movement of the whole;And near it the anchor, whose giant handWould reach down and grapple with the land,And immovable and fastHold the great ship against the bellowing blast!And at the bows an image stood,By a cunning artist carved in wood,With robes of white, that far behindSeemed to be fluttering in the wind.It was not shaped in a classic mould,Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,Or Naiad rising from the water,[1286]But modelled from the Master's daughter!On many a dreary and misty night,'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,Speeding along through the rain and the dark,Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,The pilot of some phantom bark,Guiding the vessel, in its flight,By a path none other knows aright!
¶Behold, at last,Each tall and tapering mastIs swung into its place;Shrouds and staysHolding it firm and fast!
¶Long ago,In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,When upon mountain and plainLay the snow,They fell,—those lordly pines!Those grand, majestic pines!'Mid shouts and cheersThe jaded steers,Panting beneath the goad,Dragged down the weary, winding roadThose captive kings so straight and tall,To be shorn of their streaming hair,And naked and bare,To feel the stress and the strainOf the wind and the reeling main,Whose roarWould remind them forevermoreOf their native forests they should not see again.And everywhereThe slender, graceful sparsPoise aloft in the air,And at the mast-head,White, blue, and red,A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,[1287]In foreign harbors shall beholdThat flag unrolled,'T will be as a friendly handStretched out from his native land,Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless 1
¶All is finished! and at lengthHas come the bridal dayOf beauty and of strength.To-day the vessel shall be launched!With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,And o'er the bay,Slowly, in all his splendors dight,The great sun rises to behold the sight.The ocean old,Centuries old,Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,Paces restless to and fro,Up and down the sands of gold.His beating heart is not at rest;And far and wide,With ceaseless flow,His beard of snowHeaves with the heaving of his breast.He waits impatient for his bride.There she stands,With her foot upon the sands,Decked with flags and streamers gay,In honor of her marriage day,Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,Round her like a veil descending,Ready to beThe bride of the gray old sea.
¶On the deck another brideIs standing by her lover's side.Shadows from the flags and shrouds,Like the shadows cast by clouds,Broken by many a sudden fleck,Fall around them on the deck.[1288]The prayer is said,The service read,The joyous bridegroom bows his head;And in tears the good old MasterShakes the brown hand of his son,Kisses his daughter's glowing cheekIn silence, for he cannot speak,And ever fisterDown his own the tears begin to run.The worthy pastor—The shepherd of that wandering flock,That has the ocean for its wold,That has the vessel for its fold,Leaping ever from rock to rock—Spake, with accents mild and clear,Words of warning, words of cheer,But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.He knew the chartOf the sailor's heart,All its pleasures and its griefs,All its shallows and rocky reefs,All those secret currents, that flowWith such resistless undertow,And lift and drift, with terrible force,The will from its moorings and its course.Therefore he spake, and thus said he:—'Like unto ships far off at sea,Outward or homeward bound, are we.Before, behind, and all around,Floats and swings the horizon's bound,Seems at its distant rim to riseAnd climb the crystal wall of the skies,And then again to turn and sink,As if we could slide from its outer brink.Ah! it is not the sea,It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,But ourselvesThat rock and riseWith endless and uneasy motion,Now touching the very skies,[1289]Now sinking into the depths of ocean.Ah! if our souls but poise and swingLike the compass in its brazen ring,Ever level and ever trueTo the toil and the task we have to do,We shall sail securely, and safely reachThe Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beachThe sights we see, and the sounds we hear,Will be those of joy and not of fear!'
¶Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs.And see! she stirs!She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean's arms!And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean seemed to say,'Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth and all her charms!'
¶How beautiful she is! How fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.[1290]Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o'er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives!
¶Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,'Tis of the wave and not the rock;'Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest's roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
786 My Lost Youth
¶OFTEN I think of the beautiful townThat is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me.[1291]And a verse of a Lapland songIs haunting my memory still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,And catch, in sudden gleams,The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,And islands that were the HesperidesOf all my boyish dreams.And the burden of that old song,It murmurs and whispers still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶I remember the black wharves and the slips,And the sea-tides tossing free;And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips,And the beauty and mystery of the ships,And the magic of the sea.And the voice of that wayward songIs singing and saying still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶I remember the bulwarks by the shore,And the fort upon the hill;The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,And the bugle wild and shrill.And the music of that old songThrobs in my memory still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶I remember the sea-fight far away,How it thundered o'er the tide!And the dead captains, as they layIn their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bayWhere they in battle died.[1292]And the sound of that mournful songGoes through me with a thrill:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶I can see the breezy dome of groves,The shadows of Deering's Woods;And the friendships old and the early lovesCome back with a Sabbath sound, as of dovesIn quiet neighborhoods.And the verse of that sweet old song,It flutters and murmurs still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶I remember the gleams and glooms that dartAcross the school-boy's brain;The song and the silence in the heart,That in part are prophecies, and in partAre longings wild and vain.And the voice of that fitful songSings on, and is never still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek,And a mist before the eye.And the words of that fatal songCome over me like a chill:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
¶Strange to me now are the forms I meetWhen I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet,And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,As they balance up and down,[1293]Are singing the beautiful song,Are sighing and whispering still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts
¶And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there,And among the dreams of the days that were,I find my lost youth again.And the strange and beautiful song,The groves are repeating it still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts
The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz
¶May 28, 1857
¶I T was fifty years agoIn the pleasant month of May,In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,A child in its cradle lay.And Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee,Saying: 'Here is a story-bookThy Father has written for thee.'
¶'Come, wander with me,' she said,'Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God.'
¶And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse,Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe.
¶And whenever the way seemed long,Or his heart began to fail,She would sing a more wonderful song,Or tell a more marvellous tale.[1294]So she keeps him still a child,And will not let him go,Though at times his heart beats wildFor the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
¶Though at times he hears in his dreamsThe Ranz des Vaches of old,And the rush of mountain streamsFrom glaciers clear and cold;
¶And the mother at home says, 'Hark!For his voice I listen and yearn;It is growing late and dark,And my boy does not return!'
The Children's Hour
¶BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,When the night is beginning to lower,Comes a pause in the day's occupations,That is known as the Children's Hour.
¶I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,And voices soft and sweet.
¶From my study I see in the lamplight,Descending the broad hall stair,Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,And Edith with golden hair.
¶A whisper, and then a silence:Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning togetherTo take me by surprise.
¶A sudden rush from the stairway,A sudden raid from the hall!By three doors left unguardedThey enter my castle wall![1295]They climb up into my turretO'er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they surround me;They seem to be everywhere.
¶They almost devour me with kisses,Their arms about me entwine,Till I think of the Bishop of BingenIn his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine I
¶Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,Because you have scaled the wall,Such an old mustache as I amIs not a match for you all!
¶I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeonIn the round-tower of my heart.
¶And there will I keep you forever,Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,And moulder in dust away!
y8g PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
¶LISTEN, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, 'If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm.'[1296]Then he said, 'Good-night!' and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.
¶Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,Wanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.
¶Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,—By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the town,And the moonlight flowing over all.
¶Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, 'AH is well!'A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;[1297]For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
¶Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns!
¶A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
¶He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
¶It was twelve by the village clock,When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,[1298]And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.
¶It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.
¶It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.
¶You know the rest. In the books you have read,How the British Regulars fired and fled,—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.
¶So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the doorAnd a word that shall echo forevermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,[1299]Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
790 Killed at the Ford
¶HE is dead, the beautiful youth,The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,He, the life and light of us all,Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,Whom all eyes followed with one consent,The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,Hushed all murmurs of discontent.Only last night, as we rode along,Down the dark of the mountain gap,To visit the picket-guard at the ford,Little dreaming of any mishap,He was humming the words of some old song:'Two red roses he had on his capAnd another he bore at the point of his sword.'
¶Sudden and swift a whistling ballCame out of a wood, and the voice was still;Something I heard in the darkness fall,And for a moment my blood grew chill;I spake in a whisper, as he who speaksIn a room where some one is lying dead;But he made no answer to what I said.
¶We lifted him up to his saddle again,And through the mire and the mist and the rainCarried him back to the silent camp,And laid him as if asleep on his bed;And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lampTwo white roses upon his cheeks,And one, just over his heart, blood-red!
¶And I saw in a vision how far and fleetThat fatal bullet went speeding forth,Till it reached a town in the distant North,[1300]Till it reached a house in a sunny street,Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat,Without a murmur, without a cry;And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,For one who had passed from cross to crownAnd the neighbors wondered that she should die.
797 EvangelineA Tale of Acadie
¶THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring oceanSpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
¶This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath itLeaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of thehuntsman?Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,—Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of OctoberSeize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
¶Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest;List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
Part the First
¶1
¶IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-PreLay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,[1301]Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gatesOpened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfieldsSpreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northwardBlomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountainsSea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty AtlanticLooked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projectingOver the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunsetLighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtlesScarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the goldenFlax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doorsMingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of themaidens.Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the childrenPaused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sankDown to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfrySoftly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the villageColumns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,—Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free fromFear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
¶Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;[1302]Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snowflakes;White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of hertresses!Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontideFlagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turretSprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssopSprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
¶Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmerStood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shadySycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpathLed through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grownBucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and thefarmyard.There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and theharrows;There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsameVoice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one[1303]Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous cornloft.There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmatesMurmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezesNumberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
¶Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-PreLived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal,Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whisperedHurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhoodGrew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their lettersOut of the self-same book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold himTake in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheelLay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darknessBursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.[1304]Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallowBrings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.'Sunshine of Saint Eulalie' was she called; for that was the sunshineWhich, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children.
II
¶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,Desolate 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 honeyTill 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 landscapeLay 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,All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sunLooked with the eye of love through the golden vapors 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.1
¶Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending[1305]Brought 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.Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,Patient, 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 wolveshowled.Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,Nodded 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,Echoed 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.
p. 1305¶In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmerSat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreathsStruggled 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 dresserCaught 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.[1306]Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,Followed the old man's song and united the fragments together.As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,Footfalls 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,And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.'Welcome!' the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on thethreshold,'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;Never 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:—'Benedict Beliefontaine, 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,And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:—'Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchorsRide 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 mandateWill be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean timeMany 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,And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.''Not so thinketh the folk in the village,' said, warmly, the blacksmith,[1307]Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:—'Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,Waiting 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,Safer 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 earth; for this is the night of the contract.Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the villageStrongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round aboutthem,Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.Rene 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,Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
¶in
¶Bent like a laboring 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, hungOver 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,Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,And of the white Letiche, 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,[1308]And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,And 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,And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand.'Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,—'Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;And what their errand may be I know not better than others.Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intentionBrings 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,—'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 favorite tale, and he loved to repeat itWhen his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.'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.Even 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 themightyRuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palaceThat a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicionFell on an orphan girl who lived as a 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,Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunderSmote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand[1309]Down 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 inwoven.'Silenced, 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 vaporsFreeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
¶Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewedNut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;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.Orderly 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 the bridegroom,Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old menLaughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre,Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in theking-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 mists of the meadows.Silently 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.Many 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,[1310]And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.Silent she passed 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 foldedLinen 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 ofthe maidenSwelled 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.Yet 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,As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!
IV
¶Pleasandy rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.Pleasandy 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 laborKnocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring 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,Where 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 labor were silenced.Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doorsSat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.[1311]Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;Bright 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;There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-whiteHair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddlerGlowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunquerque,And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dancesUnder 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 sonorousSounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.Thronged erelong 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 amongthemEntered 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,Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.[1312]'You are convened this day,' he said, 'by his Majesty's orders.Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temperPainful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.Yet 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!Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!'As, when the air is serene in 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,Bellowing 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 doorway.Vain 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,—'Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn themallegiance!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,Lo! 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 mournfulSpake 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 labored among you, and taught you,[1313]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?Have 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!Hark! 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,While 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,Rose on the ardor 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,Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, 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 thedairy,And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the 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,—Charity, 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.[1314]Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vaporsVeiled 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 windowsStood she, and listened and looked, till, 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 tenandess house of her father.Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted,Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.In the dead of the 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 thunderTold 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.
¶v
¶Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth dayCheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farmhouse.Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,Came from the neighboring 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.Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
¶Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and 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;All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors
p. 1315¶Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
¶Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
¶Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. Foremost 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
¶wayside
¶Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
¶Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
¶Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,—
¶Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
¶And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
¶Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
¶Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whis
¶pered,—
¶'Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another
¶Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!' Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!
¶Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his
¶footstep
¶Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.
¶But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
¶There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
¶Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their
¶children
¶Left 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.
p. 1316¶Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent oceanFled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Farther 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,Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;Lowing 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 milk-maid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
¶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,Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering firelight.'BenediciteV murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.More 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 themMoved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.[1317]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 the mountain and meadow,Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and 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 ofa martyr.Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-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,'We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!'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 encampmentsFar in the western prairies or 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 themeadows.
¶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.Slowly 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 awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.[1318]Faces 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.Then 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 church-yard.'Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre.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.'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 harbor,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
Part the SecondI
¶MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pr^,When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,Exile without an end, and without an example in story.Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from thenortheastStrikes 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 WatersSeizes 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.[1319]Long 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,Passions 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,Suddenly 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 endeavor;Sometimes 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 rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and knownhim,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.''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?Here 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.'1Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, 'I cannot!Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,[1320]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;If 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.labor; accomplish thy work of affection! 'Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.Therefore accomplish thy labor 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 labored and waited.Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, 'Despairnot!'Thus 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:Far 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 the spot where it reaches an outlet.
¶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 shipwreckedNation, 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.With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests,Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;
p. 1321¶Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars
¶Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,
¶Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.
¶Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,
¶Shaded 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.
¶They, 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 cypress Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air
¶Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
¶Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
¶Home 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, Gleamed 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. As, 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 faindy
¶Floated 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, And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure
p. 1322¶Sailed 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.Multitudinous 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,Silent 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.
¶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.Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,Fragrant and thickly embowered 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.Under 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 grapevineHung 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 heavenLighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.
¶Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.[1323]Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.At 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 resdess,Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows;All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers.Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,As from a 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.Is 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,—'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 southward,On the banks of the Teche, 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 sheepfold.Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavensBending 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;Twinkling 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,[1324]Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feelingGlowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.Then from a neighboring 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,That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad: then soaring to 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,As 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 Teche, where it flows through the greenOpelousas,And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;—Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.
¶in
¶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 Yuletide,Stood, 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,Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,Scenes of endless wooing and endless contentions of rivals.Silence 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.[1325]In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathwayThrough 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.
¶Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombreroGazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazingQuietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory 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 resoundedWildly 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.Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of thegardenSaw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forwardRushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.There in an arbor 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 misgivingsStole 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,'Gone? is Gabriel gone?' and, concealing her face on his shoulder,All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.[1326]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.Moody 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,Tedious 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;He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morningWe will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.'