Читать книгу The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Original Classic Edition - Longfellow Henry - Страница 3

Never--forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,

The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below,

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The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,--

"Forever--never! Never--forever!"

All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain. "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by,

The ancient timepiece makes reply,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,

And death, and time shall disappear,-- Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. SONNETS

MEZZO CAMMIN

Half of my life is gone, and I have let

The years slip from me and have not fulfilled

The aspiration of my youth, to build Some tower of song with lofty parapet. Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret

Of restless passions chat would not be stilled, But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,

Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past

Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,-- A city in the twilight dim and vast,

With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.-- And hear above me on the autumnal blast

The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights. THE EVENING STAR

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her casement, shines

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The evening star, the star of love and rest! And then anon she doth herself divest

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!

My morning and my evening star of love! My best and gentlest lady! even thus,

As that fair planet in the sky above, Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,

And from thy darkened window fades the light. AUTUMN

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain! Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended

So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves! DANTE

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese,

As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"

CURFEW

I.

Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole,

The Curfew Bell

Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers,

And put out the light;

Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night.

Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire; Sound fades into silence,--

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All footsteps retire.

No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall!

Sleep and oblivion

Reign over all! II.

The book is completed, And closed, like the day;

And the hand that has written it

Lays it away.

Dim grow its fancies; Forgotten they lie;

Like coals in the ashes, They darken and die. Song sinks into silence, The story is told,

The windows are darkened, The hearthstone is cold. Darker and darker

The black shadows fall; Sleep and oblivion

Reign over all.

************ EVANGELINE

A 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 ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman

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 October Seize 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 I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre

Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates

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Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains

Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked 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 projecting

Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles

Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens, Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village Columns 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 from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their 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. Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;

White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden, Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, 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 farmer

Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady

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Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath Led 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-grown

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farmyard, There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. Many a youth, as he knelt in the 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 whispered

Hurried 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 childhood

Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters

Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,

Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness

Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, 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 hounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!

Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,

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Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it full of 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 September

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey

Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian bunters asserted

Cold 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 landscape

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farmyards, 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 sun Looked 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 forest Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting 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 superbly

Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;

Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,

When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. 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 udders Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.

Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farmyard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;

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Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer

Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths

Struggled 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 armchair

Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser Caught 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 him

Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 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 songs 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 the threshold. "Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle

Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco; Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams

Round 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 Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a 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 anchors Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded

On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate

Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."

Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,

And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, 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 tomorrow.

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:--

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"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 tonight may no shadow of sorrow Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract. Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village

Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them, Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.

Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. 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.

III

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, hung

Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred Children'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 unchristened Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children; And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,

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 intention

Brings 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 justice

Triumphs; 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 it

When 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 Justice

Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided

Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.

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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 the mighty

Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace

That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,

Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand Down on the pavement 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 blacksmith Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;

All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors

Freeze 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-brewed

Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre; While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,

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 table Three 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 men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,

Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row

Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist 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 belfry Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway

Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.

Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearthstone, 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-press

Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded

Linen 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.

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Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight

Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden

Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with

Naked 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 sadness

Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!

IV

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor

Knocked 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 folk

Made 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-doors

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 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 gladness

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,

Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.

There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated; There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.

Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,

Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.

Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white

Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler

Glowed 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 Dunkerque, And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;

Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!

So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous Sounded 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 headstones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.

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Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them

Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor

Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,-- Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal

Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.

Then uprose their commander, and spoke from the steps of the altar, Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.

"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.

Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness, Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper

Painful 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 kinds Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there

Ever 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 the sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones

Beats 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 rose Louder 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 imprecations

Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others

Rose, 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 them allegiance! Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!" More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier

Smote 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 Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;

Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful Spake 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, 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 it Thus 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 people Sank 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.

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Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest and the people responded, Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria

Sang 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 sides Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers; There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy; And, at the head of the board, the great armchair of the farmer.

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset

Threw 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. Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled 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 windows Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, "Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer

Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted, 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 fall

Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder Told 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 day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 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-beach Piled 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.

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Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors 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. Halfway 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.

Team then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,

Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,-- "Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one 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.

Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight

Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery seaweed. 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 leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.

Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farmyard,-- Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.

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,

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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. "Benedicite!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.

More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents Faltered 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 them

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red

Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon 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 the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a 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-tops

Started 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 farmyards, Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle

Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments

Far 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 horses Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden Gazed 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-shore

Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.

Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;

And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 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 season

Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."

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Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the seaside, 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.

'T was 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 SECOND

I

Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre, 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 the northeast Strikes 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 Waters

Seizes 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. 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 pathway

Marked 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 by

Camp-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 descended

Into 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 bosom

He 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 known him, But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.

"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" they said; "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; "O 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?

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Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others

Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy! Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot!

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,

Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee! Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning

Back 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, "Despair not?" 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 water Here 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.

II

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 shipwrecked Nation, 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 farmers

On 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;

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,

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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 roasts 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 hoofbeats 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 faintly

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

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 them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.

Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations

Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus

Lifted 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 grapevine

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,

On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,

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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 heaven Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.

Nearer, 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. 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 sadness Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.

Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 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 maiden

Said 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 surface

Is 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 heavens Bending 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 horizon

Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape; Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest

Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.

Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,

Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed 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 madness Seemed 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,

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As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops Shakes 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 green Opelousas,

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.

III

Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches

Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,

Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers

Hewn 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 sunshine Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow, And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.

In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway Through 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 canvas

Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines.

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 sombrero Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness

That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding

Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded

Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle

Rose 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 the garden Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward Rushed 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 answer

Gave 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 misgivings Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,

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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. 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 spirit Could 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 him Unto 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 tomorrow, and through the red dew of the morning

We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison."

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,

Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.

Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.

"Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!" As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.

Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith, All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;

Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,

And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his who would take them; Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.

Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda, Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.

All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,

Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman

Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.

Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,

Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:-- "Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless, Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!

Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.

Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows

More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.

Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies; Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber

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With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.

After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,

No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle." Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,

While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table, So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded, Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff halfway to his nostrils.

But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:-- "Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!

For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!"

Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.

It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,

Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman. Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:

Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers, Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,

Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,

All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;

While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness

Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river

Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longing;

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies

Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man who had ceased to marvel and worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin." And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved!

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!

Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,

Thou hast lain down to rest and to dream of me in thy slumbers!

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When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness: And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "Tomorrow!" Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden

Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. "Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,

And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." "Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended

Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.

Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.

Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,

Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate Country; Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,

Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord, That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,

Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. IV

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains

Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.

Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon, Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.

Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.

Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders; Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers; And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil

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Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,

When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana

Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered

Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features

Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,

From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,

Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them

On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.

But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,

Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering firelight Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated

Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, She in turn related her love and all its disasters.

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended

Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror

Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis; Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,

But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,

Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,

That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,

Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people. Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened

To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,

Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor

Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.

With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches

Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.

Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,

Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,

As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits

Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment

That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.

With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee

Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western slope of these mountains

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Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;

Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him." Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,

"Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"

Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains, Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,

And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,

Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines,

Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches

Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,

Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen

Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,

And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.

There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:-- "Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated

On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,

Told me this same sad tale then arose and continued his journey!"

Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;

But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes

Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.

"Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn, When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."

Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,

"Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."

So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions. Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,--

Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming

Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,

But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield.

Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.

"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered! Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow,

See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey

Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,

Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,

But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

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Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter

Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,--yet Gabriel came not; Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.

But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted

Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River,

And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.

When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,

She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places

Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;-- Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, Now in the noisy camps and the battlefields of the army, Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.

Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.

Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.

Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead, Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthy horizon,

As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.

V

In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,

As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.

Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger; And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway

Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,

Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.

Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;

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He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.

Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated

Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,

Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,

Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,

So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,

Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence.

Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor; But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;--

Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands; Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo

Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you." Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,

Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.

Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden; And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,

That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind, Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted

Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;

Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended";

And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.

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And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time; Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,

Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; But, as he lay in the in morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"

-------------

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors, Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey! Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language.

Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.

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In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;

Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

**************

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE DEDICATION

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, Hears round about him voices as it darkens,

And seeing not the forms from which they come, Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens; So walking here in twilight, O my friends!

I hear your voices, softened by the distance, And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends

His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. If any thought of mine, or sung or told,

Has ever given delight or consolation, Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, By every friendly sign and salutation.

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown! Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, That teaches me, when seeming most alone,

Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. Kind messages, that pass from land to land;

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand,--

One touch of fire,--and all the rest is mystery!

The pleasant books, that silently among

Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue

Spice from the printed leaves or pictured faces! Perhaps on earth I never shall behold,

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance; Therefore to me ye never will grow old,

But live forever young in my remembrance. Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away!

Your gentle voices will flow on forever,

When life grows bare and tarnished with decay,

As through a leafless landscape flows a river.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends,

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion;

Not interrupting with intrusive talk

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest,

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted,

To have my place reserved among the rest, Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited! BY THE SEASIDE

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP

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"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 word

Delighted the Master heard;

For his heart was in his work, and the heart

Giveth grace unto every Art.

A quiet smile played round his lips,

As the eddies and dimples of the tide

Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride.

And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, "Erelong we will launch

A 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 plan What the child is to the man,

Its counterpart in miniature;

That with a hand more swift and sure The greater labor might be brought To answer to his inward thought.

And as he labored, his mind ran o'er

The various ships that were built of yore, And above them all, and strangest of all Towered 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 frown

From some old castle, looking down

Upon 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 aft With 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,

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And scattered here and there, with these, The knarred and crooked cedar knees; Brought from regions far away,

From Pascagoula's sunny bay,

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! Ah! what a wondrous thing it is

To note how many wheels of toil

One 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 be

Of 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 broke

In 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 brain Many a ship that sailed the main

Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--

The fiery youth, who was to be

the heir of his dexterity,

The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, When he had built and launched from land What 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; Of all that is unsound beware;

For only what is sound and strong to this vessel stall belong.

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine

Here together shall combine.

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, And the UNION be her name!

For the day that gives her to the sea Shall give my daughter unto thee!" The Master's word

Enraptured the young man heard; And as he turned his face aside,

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, Standing before

Her 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,

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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 he

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! Ah, how skilful grows the hand

That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain,

And he who followeth Love's behest

Far excelleth all the rest!

Thus with the rising of the sun

Was the noble task begun

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds

Were heard the intermingled sounds

Of axes and of mallets, plied

With vigorous arms on every side; Plied so deftly and so well,

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, The keel of oak for a noble ship, Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong Was lying ready, and stretched along The blocks, well placed upon the slip. Happy, thrice happy, every one

Who 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 door Sat with the maiden calm and still. And within the porch, a little more Removed beyond the evening chill, The father sat, and told them tales

Of 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 breath

At 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 gleam From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume The silent group in the twilight gloom,

And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; And for a moment one might mark What had been hidden by the dark,

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That the head of the maiden lay at rest, Tenderly, on the young man's breast! 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 side The 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, up-wreathing. Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething Caldron, that glowed,

And overflowed

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. And amid the clamors

Of clattering hammers,

He who listened heard now and then The 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 control

Over the movement of the whole;

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand Would reach down and grapple with the land, And immovable and fast

Hold 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 behind Seemed 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,

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 mast Is swung into its place; Shrouds and stays

Holding it firm and fast!

Long ago,

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, When upon mountain and plain

Lay the snow,

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They fell,--those lordly pines! Those grand, majestic pines!

'Mid shouts and cheers

The jaded steers,

Panting beneath the goad,

Dragged down the weary, winding road Those captive kings so straight and tall, To be shorn of their streaming hair, And, naked and bare,

To feel the stress and the strain

Of the wind and the reeling main, Whose roar

Would remind them forevermore

Of their native forests they should not see again. And everywhere

The slender, graceful spars

Poise 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, In foreign harbors shall behold

That flag unrolled,

'T will be as a friendly hand

Stretched out from his native land,

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!

All is finished! and at length

Has come the bridal day

Of 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 snow

Heaves 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 be

The bride of the gray old sea. On the deck another bride

Is standing by her lover's side. Shadows from the flags and shrouds, Like the shadows cast by clouds, Broken by many a sunny fleck,

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Fall around them on the deck. The prayer is said,

The service read,

The joyous bridegroom bows his head; And in tear's the good old Master Shakes the brown hand of his son, Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek

In silence, for he cannot speak, And ever faster

Down 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 chart

Of the sailor's heart,

All its pleasures and its griefs, All its shallows and rocky reefs,

All those secret currents, that flow

With 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 rise

And 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 ourselves

That rock and rise

With endless and uneasy motion, Now touching the very skies,

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. Ah! if our souls but poise and swing Like the compass in its brazen ring, Ever level and ever true

To the toil and the task we have to do, We shall sail securely, and safely reach

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach The 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.

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And see! she stirs!

She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel

The 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 crowd

There 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 fair

She lies within those arms, that press

Her form with many a soft caress Of 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. Sail forth into the sea of life,

O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be!

For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something 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 heat

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock,

'T is of the wave and not the rock;

'T is 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! SEAWEED

When descends on the Atlantic

The gigantic

Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,

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Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges

Of sunken ledges,

In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing,

Silver-flashing

Surges of San Salvador;

From the tumbling surf, that buries

The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides;

And from wrecks of ships, and drifting

Spars, uplifting

On the desolate, rainy seas;-- Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting

Currents of the restless main;

Till in sheltered coves, and reaches

Of sandy beaches,

All have found repose again.

So when storms of wild emotion

Strike the ocean

Of the poet's soul, erelong

From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness,

Floats some fragment of a song: Front the far-off isles enchanted,

Heaven has planted

With the golden fruit of Truth;

From the flashing surf, whose vision

Gleams Elysian

In the tropic clime of Youth;

From the strong Will, and the Endeavor

That forever

Wrestle with the tides of Fate

From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered,

Floating waste and desolate;-- Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting

Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded,

They, like hoarded

Household words, no more depart. CHRYSAOR

Just above yon sandy bar,

As the day grows fainter and dimmer, Lonely and lovely, a single star

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer

Into the ocean faint and far

Falls the trail of its golden splendor, And the gleam of that single star

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. Chrysaor, rising out of the sea,

Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe,

Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. Thus o'er the ocean faint and far

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Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly; Is it a God, or is it a star

That, entranced, I gaze on nightly! THE SECRET OF THE SEA

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me

As I gaze upon the sea!

All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me. Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, Such as gleam in ancient lore;

And the singing of the sailors, And the answer from the shore! Most of all, the Spanish ballad Haunts me oft, and tarries long, Of the noble Count Arnaldos And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, Where the sand as silver shines, With a soft, monotonous cadence, Flow its unrhymed lyric lines:-- Telling how the Count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand,

Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land;--

How he heard the ancient helmsman

Chant a song so wild and clear, That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear, Till his soul was full of longing,

And he cried, with impulse strong,-- "Helmsman! for the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou,"--so the helmsman answered, "Learn the secret of the sea?

Only those who brave its dangers

Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims the horizon, In each landward-blowing breeze,

I behold that stately galley,

Hear those mournful melodies; Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me. TWILIGHT

The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea. But in the fisherman's cottage There shines a ruddier light,

And a little face at the window

Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes

Were looking into the darkness,

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To see some form arise.

And a woman's waving shadow

Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling,

Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, wild and bleak,

As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the color from her cheek?

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT

Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast,

And the east-wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice

Glisten in the sun;

On each side, like pennons wide, Flashing crystal streamlets run. His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain;

But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main. Eastward from Campobello

Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;

Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

Alas! the land-wind failed, And ice-cold grew the night;

And nevermore, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey see the light. He sat upon the deck,

The Book was in his hand

"Do not fear! Heaven is as near," He said, "by water as by land!"

In the first watch of the night,

Without a signal's sound, Out of the sea, mysteriously,

The fleet of Death rose all around.

The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds; Every mast, as it passed,

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. They grappled with their prize,

At midnight black and cold! As of a rock was the shock; Heavily the ground-swell rolled. Southward through day and dark, They drift in close embrace,

With mist and rain, o'er the open main; Yet there seems no change of place. Southward, forever southward,

They drift through dark and day; And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream

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Sinking, vanish all away. THE LIGHTHOUSE

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,

And on its outer point, some miles away, The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. Even at this distance I can see the tides, Upheaving, break unheard along its base,

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides

In the white lip and tremor of the face. And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright, Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare! Not one alone; from each projecting cape

And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher it stands Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, Wading far out among the rocks and sands, The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return, Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, And ever joyful, as they see it burn,

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,

And eager faces, as the light unveils,

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child,

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; And when, returning from adventures wild, He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same

Year after year, through all the silent night Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. The startled waves leap over it; the storm Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din Of wings and winds and solitary cries, Blinded and maddened by the light within, Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,

Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, But hails the mariner with words of love. "Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!

And with your floating bridge the ocean span;

Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,

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Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!" THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD We sat within the farm-house old,

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room;

Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene,

Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends,

When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part,

Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake

Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire

Built of the wreck of stranded ships,

The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main,

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed

And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach,

The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech. Until they made themselves a part

Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!

They were indeed too much akin,

The drift-wood fire without that burned,

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. BY THE FIRESIDE

RESIGNATION

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

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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 afflictions

Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath

Is 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 school

Where 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 doing

In 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 unspoken, May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild

In 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 expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,--

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way.

THE BUILDERS

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low;

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Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise,

Time is with materials filled;

Our to-days and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part; For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall tomorrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky.

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOURGLASS

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime

Of Arab deserts brought,

Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been

About those deserts blown!

How many strange vicissitudes has seen, How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite

Trampled and passed it o'er,

When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight

His favorite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, Crushed it beneath their tread;

Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air

Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth

Held close in her caress,

Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith

Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms

Pacing the Dead Sea beach,

And singing slow their old Armenian psalms

In half-articulate speech;

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate

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With westward steps depart;

Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,

And resolute in heart!

These have passed over it, or may have passed! Now in this crystal tower

Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, It counts the passing hour,

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; Before my dreamy eye

Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, This little golden thread

Dilates into a column high and vast, A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun, Across the boundless plain,

The column and its broader shadow run, Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! These walls again

Shut out the lurid sun,

Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; The half-hour's sand is run!

THE OPEN WINDOW

The old house by the lindens

Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played.

I saw the nursery windows

Wide open to the air;

But the faces of the children, They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house-dog

Was standing by the door;

He looked for his little playmates, Who would return no more.

They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall;

But shadow, and silence, and sadness

Were hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone;

But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand

Why closer in mine, ah! closer,

I pressed his warm, soft hand!

KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed,-- That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor,

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And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas,

And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened

Like dewdrops in the grass. They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord,

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty

They remembered one Saint more. And the reader droned from the pulpit Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, And Saint Basil's homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomaeus, Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered,

But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!" GASPAR BECERRA

By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened,

Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.

'T was an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill; But, alas! his fair ideal

Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island

Had the precious wood been brought

Day and night the anxious master

At his toil untiring wrought;

Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep,

And the day's humiliation

Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak

Shape the thought that stirs within thee!" And the startled artist woke,--

Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood; And therefrom he carved an image,

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And he saw that it was good. O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest;

Shape from that thy work of art. PEGASUS IN POUND

Once into a quiet village,

Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed.

It was Autumn, and incessant

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples

Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim;

'T was the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him.

Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapor veiled;

Not the less he breathed the odors That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common,

By the schoolboys he was found; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier, Ringing loud his brazen bell,

Wandered down the street proclaiming

There was an estray to sell.

And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapors cold and dim;

But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant,

Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars;

Till at length the bell at midnight

Sounded from its dark abode,

And, from out a neighboring farmyard

Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. Then, with nostrils wide distended, Breaking from his iron chain,

And unfolding far his pinions, To those stars he soared again. On the morrow, when the village Woke to all its toil and care,

Lo! the strange steed had departed, And they knew not when nor where. But they found, upon the greensward Where his straggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing

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From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. TEGNER'S DRAPA

I heard a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead!"

And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse

Of the dead sun

Borne through the Northern sky. Blasts from Niffelheim

Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed. And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead!" And died away

Through the dreary night, In accents of despair. Balder the Beautiful,

God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods!

Light from his forehead beamed, Runes were upon his tongue,

As on the warrior's sword. All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him harm; Even the plants and stones; All save the mistletoe,

The sacred mistletoe! Hoeder, the blind old God, Whose feet are shod with silence,

Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud Made of the mistletoe,

The accursed mistletoe! They laid him in his ship, With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre. Odin placed

A ring upon his finger,

And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship!

It floated far away

Over the misty sea,

Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves. Balder returned no more! So perish the old Gods!

But out of the sea of Time

Rises a new land of song,

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Fairer than the old.

Over its meadows green

Walk the young bards and sing. Build it again,

O ye bards,

Fairer than before!

Ye fathers of the new race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love! The law of force is dead! The law of love prevails! Thor, the thunderer,

Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek Christ. Sing no more,

O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld

Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood! SONNET

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!

Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, And giving tongues unto the silent dead!

How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages

Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, Anticipating all that shall be said!

O happy Reader! having for thy text

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught

The rarest essence of all human thought! O happy Poet! by no critic vext!

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice

To be interpreted by such a voice! THE SINGERS

God sent his Singers upon earth

With songs of sadness and of mirth,

That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again. The first, a youth, with soul of fire,

Held in his hand a golden lyre;

Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place,

And stirred with accents deep and loud

The hearts of all the listening crowd. A gray old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three

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Disputed which the best might be; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart, But the great Master said, "I see

No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. "These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright

Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony." SUSPIRIA

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone! Take them, O Grave! and let them lie Folded upon thy narrow shelves,

As garments by the soul laid by, And precious only to ourselves! Take them, O great Eternity!

Our little life is but a gust

That bends the branches of thy tree, And trails its blossoms in the dust! HYMN

FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION

Christ to the young man said: "Yet one thing more; If thou wouldst perfect be,

Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, And come and follow me!"

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, Those sacred words hath said,

And his invisible hands to-day have been

Laid on a young man's head.

And evermore beside him on his way

The unseen Christ shall move,

That he may lean upon his arm and say, "Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, To make the scene more fair;

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane

Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John

To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!

***************

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA <Notes from HIAWATHA follow> INTRODUCTION

Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the odors of the forest

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With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing of great rivers,

With their frequent repetitions, And their wild reverberations

As of thunder in the mountains?

I should answer, I should tell you, "From the forests and the prairies, From the great lakes of the Northland, From the land of the Ojibways,

From the land of the Dacotahs,

From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Feeds among the reeds and rushes.

I repeat them as I heard them

From the lips of Nawadaha,

The musician, the sweet singer." Should you ask where Nawadaha

Found these songs so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions,

I should answer, I should tell you, "In the bird's-nests of the forest, In the lodges of the beaver,

In the hoof-prints of the bison, In the eyry of the eagle!

"All the wild-fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the fen-lands,

In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"

If still further you should ask me, Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?

Tell us of this Nawadaha,"

I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such words as follow. "In the vale of Tawasentha,

In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses, Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. Round about the Indian village

Spread the meadows and the cornfields, And beyond them stood the forest, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, Green in Summer, white in Winter,

Ever sighing, ever singing.

"And the pleasant water-courses,

You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Springtime,

By the alders in the Summer,

By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha,

In the green and silent valley. "There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha,

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Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed and how he fasted, How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people!"

Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest,

Love the wind among the branches,

And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers

Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes

Flap like eagles in their eyries;-- Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to pause and listen,

Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken;-- Listen to this Indian Legend,

To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe that in all ages

Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms

There are longings, yearnings, strivings For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness,

Touch God's right hand in that darkness And are lifted up and strengthened;-- Listen to this simple story,

To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries

Over stone walls gray with mosses, Pause by some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder

On a half-effaced inscription,

Written with little skill of song-craft, Homely phrases, but each letter

Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos

Of the Here and the Hereafter;-- Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song of Hiawatha!

I

THE PEACE-PIPE

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On the Mountains of the Prairie,

On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, Gitche Manito, the mighty,

He the Master of Life, descending, On the red crags of the quarry Stood erect, and called the nations, Called the tribes of men together. From his footprints flowed a river, Leaped into the light of morning,

O'er the precipice plunging downward Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. And the Spirit, stooping earthward, With his finger on the meadow

Traced a winding pathway for it, Saying to it, "Run in this way!" From the red stone of the quarry With his hand he broke a fragment, Moulded it into a pipe-head,

Shaped and fashioned it with figures;

From the margin of the river Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, With its dark green leaves upon it; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, With the bark of the red willow;

Breathed upon the neighboring forest, Made its great boughs chafe together, Till in flame they burst and kindled; And erect upon the mountains,

Gitche Manito, the mighty,

Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, As a signal to the nations.

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, Through the tranquil air of morning, First a single line of darkness,

Then a denser, bluer vapor,

Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Like the tree-tops of the forest,

Ever rising, rising, rising,

Till it touched the top of heaven, Till it broke against the heaven, And rolled outward all around it. From the Vale of Tawasentha, From the Valley of Wyoming, From the groves of Tuscaloosa,

From the far-off Rocky Mountains, From the Northern lakes and rivers All the tribes beheld the signal,

Saw the distant smoke ascending, The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. And the Prophets of the nations Said: "Behold it, the Pukwana!

By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, Bending like a wand of willow, Waving like a hand that beckons, Gitche Manito, the mighty,

Calls the tribes of men together, Calls the warriors to his council!" Down the rivers, o'er the prairies,

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Came the warriors of the nations, Came the Delawares and Mohawks, Came the Choctaws and Camanches, Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, Came the Pawnees and Omahas, Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, Came the Hurons and Ojibways,

All the warriors drawn together By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, To the Mountains of the Prairie,

To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. And they stood there on the meadow, With their weapons and their war-gear, Painted like the leaves of Autumn, Painted like the sky of morning,

Wildly glaring at each other;

In their faces stern defiance,

In their hearts the feuds of ages, The hereditary hatred,

The ancestral thirst of vengeance. Gitche Manito, the mighty,

The creator of the nations,

Looked upon them with compassion, With paternal love and pity;

Looked upon their wrath and wrangling

But as quarrels among children,

But as feuds and fights of children!

Over them he stretched his right hand, To subdue their stubborn natures,

To allay their thirst and fever,

By the shadow of his right hand; Spake to them with voice majestic As the sound of far-off waters, Falling into deep abysses,

Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:-- "O my children! my poor children! Listen to the words of wisdom,

Listen to the words of warning, From the lips of the Great Spirit,

From the Master of Life, who made you! "I have given you lands to hunt in,

I have given you streams to fish in,

I have given you bear and bison,

I have given you roe and reindeer, I have given you brant and beaver, Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, Filled the rivers full of fishes:

Why then are you not contented? Why then will you hunt each other? "I am weary of your quarrels,

Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions; All your strength is in your union,

All your danger is in discord; Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.

"I will send a Prophet to you,

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A Deliverer of the nations,

Who shall guide you and shall teach you, Who shall toil and suffer with you.

If you listen to his counsels, You will multiply and prosper; If his warnings pass unheeded, You will fade away and perish!

"Bathe now in the stream before you, Wash the war-paint from your faces, Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, Break the red stone from this quarry, Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, Take the reeds that grow beside you, Deck them with your brightest feathers, Smoke the calumet together,

And as brothers live henceforward!" Then upon the ground the warriors

Threw their cloaks and shirts of deerskin, Threw their weapons and their war-gear, Leaped into the rushing river,

Washed the war-paint from their faces. Clear above them flowed the water, Clear and limpid from the footprints Of the Master of Life descending; Dark below them flowed the water,

Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, As if blood were mingled with it!

From the river came the warriors,

Clean and washed from all their war-paint; On the banks their clubs they buried, Buried all their warlike weapons.

Gitche Manito, the mighty, The Great Spirit, the creator, Smiled upon his helpless children! And in silence all the warriors Broke the red stone of the quarry,

Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, Broke the long reeds by the river,

Decked them with their brightest feathers, And departed each one homeward,

While the Master of Life, ascending, Through the opening of cloud-curtains, Through the doorways of the heaven, Vanished from before their faces,

In the smoke that rolled around him, The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!

II

The Four Winds

"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!"

Cried the warriors, cried the old men, When he came in triumph homeward With the sacred Belt of Wampum, From the regions of the North-Wind, From the kingdom of Wabasso,

From the land of the White Rabbit.

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He had stolen the Belt of Wampum

From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa,

From the Great Bear of the mountains, From the terror of the nations,

As he lay asleep and cumbrous

On the summit of the mountains, Like a rock with mosses on it,

Spotted brown and gray with mosses. Silently he stole upon him,

Till the red nails of the monster

Almost touched him, almost scared him, Till the hot breath of his nostrils Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis,

As he drew the Belt of Wampum Over the round ears, that heard not, Over the small eyes, that saw not, Over the long nose and nostrils,

The black muffle of the nostrils, Out of which the heavy breathing Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. Then he swung aloft his war-club, Shouted loud and long his war-cry, Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa

In the middle of the forehead,

Right between the eyes he smote him. With the heavy blow bewildered,

Rose the Great Bear of the mountains; But his knees beneath him trembled, And he whimpered like a woman,

As he reeled and staggered forward, As he sat upon his haunches;

And the mighty Mudjekeewis, Standing fearlessly before him, Taunted him in loud derision, Spake disdainfully in this wise:--

"Hark you, Bear! you are a coward; And no Brave, as you pretended;

Else you would not cry and whimper

Like a miserable woman!

Bear! you know our tribes are hostile, Long have been at war together;

Now you find that we are strongest,

You go sneaking in the forest, You go hiding in the mountains! Had you conquered me in battle Not a groan would I have uttered;

But you, Bear! sit here and whimper, And disgrace your tribe by crying, Like a wretched Shaugodaya,

Like a cowardly old woman!"

Then again he raised his war-club, Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa

In the middle of his forehead, Broke his skull, as ice is broken When one goes to fish in Winter. Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa,

He the Great Bear of the mountains, He the terror of the nations.

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"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!"

With a shout exclaimed the people, "Honor be to Mudjekeewis! Henceforth he shall be the WestWind, And hereafter and forever

Shall he hold supreme dominion Over all the winds of heaven. Call him no more Mudjekeewis,

Call him Kabeyun, the WestWind!" Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen Father of the Winds of Heaven.

For himself he kept the WestWind, Gave the others to his children; Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, Gave the South to Shawondasee,

And the North-Wind, wild and cruel,

To the fierce Kabibonokka.

Young and beautiful was Wabun; He it was who brought the morning, He it was whose silver arrows

Chased the dark o'er hill and valley; He it was whose cheeks were painted With the brightest streaks of crimson, And whose voice awoke the village, Called the deer, and called the hunter. Lonely in the sky was Wabun;

Though the birds sang gayly to him, Though the wild-flowers of the meadow Filled the air with odors for him,

Though the forests and the rivers Sang and shouted at his coming, Still his heart was sad within him, For he was alone in heaven.

But one morning, gazing earthward, While the village still was sleeping, And the fog lay on the river,

Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, He beheld a maiden walking

All alone upon a meadow, Gathering water-flags and rushes By a river in the meadow.

Every morning, gazing earthward, Still the first thing he beheld there Was her blue eyes looking at him, Two blue lakes among the rushes. And he loved the lonely maiden, Who thus waited for his coming; For they both were solitary,

She on earth and he in heaven. And he wooed her with caresses, Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,

With his flattering words he wooed her, With his sighing and his singing, Gentlest whispers in the branches, Softest music, sweetest odors,

Till he drew her to his bosom, Folded in his robes of crimson, Till into a star he changed her,

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Trembling still upon his bosom; And forever in the heavens

They are seen together walking, Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, Wabun and the Star of Morning. But the fierce Kabibonokka

Had his dwelling among icebergs, In the everlasting snowdrifts,

In the kingdom of Wabasso,

In the land of the White Rabbit. He it was whose hand in Autumn Painted all the trees with scarlet, Stained the leaves with red and yellow; He it was who sent the snow-flake, Sifting, hissing through the forest, Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers,

Drove the loon and sea-gull southward, Drove the cormorant and curlew

To their nests of sedge and sea-tang

In the realms of Shawondasee.

Once the fierce Kabibonokka Issued from his lodge of snowdrifts From his home among the icebergs, And his hair, with snow besprinkled, Streamed behind him like a river,

Like a black and wintry river,

As he howled and hurried southward, Over frozen lakes and moorlands. There among the reeds and rushes Found he Shingebis, the diver,

Trailing strings of fish behind him, O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, Lingering still among the moorlands, Though his tribe had long departed To the land of Shawondasee.

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, "Who is this that dares to brave me? Dares to stay in my dominions, When the Wawa has departed,

When the wild-goose has gone southward, And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

Long ago departed southward? I will go into his wigwam,

I will put his smouldering fire out!"

And at night Kabibonokka,

To the lodge came wild and wailing, Heaped the snow in drifts about it, Shouted down into the smoke-flue, Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, Flapped the curtain of the doorway. Shingebis, the diver, feared not, Shingebis, the diver, cared not;

Four great logs had he for firewood, One for each moon of the winter, And for food the fishes served him. By his blazing fire he sat there, Warm and merry, eating, laughing, Singing, "O Kabibonokka,

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You are but my fellow-mortal!" Then Kabibonokka entered,

And though Shingebis, the diver, Felt his presence by the coldness, Felt his icy breath upon him,

Still he did not cease his singing, Still he did not leave his laughing, Only turned the log a little,

Only made the fire burn brighter,

Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue.

From Kabibonokka's forehead, From his snow-besprinkled tresses, Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, Making dints upon the ashes,

As along the eaves of lodges,

As from drooping boughs of hemlock, Drips the melting snow in springtime, Making hollows in the snowdrifts.

Till at last he rose defeated,

Could not bear the heat and laughter, Could not bear the merry singing,

But rushed headlong through the doorway, Stamped upon the crusted snowdrifts, Stamped upon the lakes and rivers,

Made the snow upon them harder, Made the ice upon them thicker, Challenged Shingebis, the diver,

To come forth and wrestle with him, To come forth and wrestle naked

On the frozen fens and moorlands. Forth went Shingebis, the diver, Wrestled all night with the North-Wind, Wrestled naked on the moorlands

With the fierce Kabibonokka,

Till his panting breath grew fainter, Till his frozen grasp grew feebler,

Till he reeled and staggered backward,

And retreated, baffled, beaten,

To the kingdom of Wabasso,

To the land of the White Rabbit, Hearing still the gusty laughter, Hearing Shingebis, the diver, Singing, "O Kabibonokka,

You are but my fellow-mortal!" Shawondasee, fat and lazy,

Had his dwelling far to southward, In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine,

In the never-ending Summer.

He it was who sent the wood-birds, Sent the robin, the Opechee,

Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa,

Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, Sent the melons and tobacco,

And the grapes in purple clusters. From his pipe the smoke ascending Filled the sky with haze and vapor, Filled the air with dreamy softness,

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Gave a twinkle to the water,

Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, Brought the tender Indian Summer

To the melancholy north-land,

In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. Listless, careless Shawondasee!

In his life he had one shadow, In his heart one sorrow had he. Once, as he was gazing northward, Far away upon a prairie

He beheld a maiden standing, Saw a tall and slender maiden All alone upon a prairie;

Brightest green were all her garments, And her hair was like the sunshine. Day by day he gazed upon her,

Day by day he sighed with passion, Day by day his heart within him

Grew more hot with love and longing

For the maid with yellow tresses. But he was too fat and lazy

To bestir himself and woo her; Yes, too indolent and easy

To pursue her and persuade her; So he only gazed upon her,

Only sat and sighed with passion

For the maiden of the prairie.

Till one morning, looking northward, He beheld her yellow tresses

Changed and covered o'er with whiteness,

Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. "Ah! my brother from the Northland, From the kingdom of Wabasso,

From the land of the White Rabbit! You have stolen the maiden from me, You have laid your hand upon her, You have wooed and won my maiden, With your stories of the Northland!" Thus the wretched Shawondasee Breathed into the air his sorrow;

And the South-Wind o'er the prairie Wandered warm with sighs of passion, With the sighs of Shawondasee,

Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes,

Full of thistledown the prairie,

And the maid with hair like sunshine Vanished from his sight forever; Never more did Shawondasee

See the maid with yellow tresses! Poor, deluded Shawondasee!

'T was no woman that you gazed at,

'T was no maiden that you sighed for,

'T was the prairie dandelion

That through all the dreamy Summer You had gazed at with such longing, You had sighed for with such passion, And had puffed away forever,

Blown into the air with sighing.

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Ah! deluded Shawondasee!

Thus the Four Winds were divided; Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis

Had their stations in the heavens, At the corners of the heavens; For himself the WestWind only Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis.

III

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD

Downward through the evening twilight, In the days that are forgotten,

In the unremembered ages,

From the full moon fell Nokomis, Fell the beautiful Nokomis,

She a wife, but not a mother.

She was sporting with her women, Swinging in a swing of grapevines, When her rival, the rejected,

Full of jealousy and hatred, Cut the leafy swing asunder,

Cut in twain the twisted grapevines, And Nokomis fell affrighted

Downward through the evening twilight, On the Muskoday, the meadow,

On the prairie full of blossoms. "See! a star falls!" said the people; "From the sky a star is falling!"

There among the ferns and mosses, There among the prairie lilies,

On the Muskoday, the meadow,

In the moonlight and the starlight, Fair Nokomis bore a daughter.

And she called her name Wenonah, As the first-born of her daughters. And the daughter of Nokomis Grew up like the prairie lilies,

Grew a tall and slender maiden, With the beauty of the moonlight, With the beauty of the starlight. And Nokomis warned her often, Saying oft, and oft repeating,

"Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis,

Of the WestWind, Mudjekeewis; Listen not to what he tells you; Lie not down upon the meadow, Stoop not down among the lilies,

Lest the WestWind come and harm you!" But she heeded not the warning,

Heeded not those words of wisdom, And the WestWind came at evening, Walking lightly o'er the prairie, Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, Bending low the flowers and grasses, Found the beautiful Wenonah,

Lying there among the lilies,

Wooed her with his words of sweetness,

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Wooed her with his soft caresses, Till she bore a son in sorrow, Bore a son of love and sorrow. Thus was born my Hiawatha,

Thus was born the child of wonder; But the daughter of Nokomis, Hiawatha's gentle mother,

In her anguish died deserted

By the WestWind, false and faithless, By the heartless Mudjekeewis.

For her daughter long and loudly Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; "Oh that I were dead!" she murmured, "Oh that I were dead, as thou art!

No more work, and no more weeping, Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest,

Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water,

Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha,

Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying,

"Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing,

"Ewa-yea! my little owlet!

Who is this, that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!"

Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses;

Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward

In the frosty nights of Winter;

Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. At the door on summer evenings

Sat the little Hiawatha;

Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the water,

Sounds of music, words of wonder;

'Minne-wawa!" said the Pine-trees, Mudway-aushka!" said the water. Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee,

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Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly,

Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me,

Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" Saw the moon rise from the water Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "Once a warrior, very angry,

Seized his grandmother, and threw her

Up into the sky at midnight;

Right against the moon he threw her;

'T is her body that you see there." Saw the rainbow in the heaven,

In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered:

"'T is the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild-flowers of the forest,

All the lilies of the prairie,

When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us." When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest,

"What is that?" he cried in terror, "What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other." Then the little Hiawatha

Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."

Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly,

Why the rabbit was so timid,

Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."

Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha;

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From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of deerskin.

Then he said to Hiawatha: "Go, my son, into the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck,

Kill for us a deer with antlers!" Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows;

And the birds sang round him, o'er him, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"

Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"

Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,

In and out among the branches,

Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"

And the rabbit from his pathway

Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter,

"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"

But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river,

To the ford across the river,

And as one in slumber walked he. Hidden in the alder-bushes,

There he waited till the deer came, Till he saw two antlers lifted,

Saw two eyes look from the thicket, Saw two nostrils point to windward, And a deer came down the pathway, Flecked with leafy light and shadow. And his heart within him fluttered, Trembled like the leaves above him, Like the birch-leaf palpitated,

As the deer came down the pathway. Then, upon one knee uprising, Hiawatha aimed an arrow;

Scarce a twig moved with his motion, Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, But the wary roebuck started, Stamped with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot uplifted, Leaped as if to meet the arrow;

Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,

Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him! Dead he lay there in the forest,

By the ford across the river;

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