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In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
repeated Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, High at some lovely 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 nought in their craws but 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 i he suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and wood
up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
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 odour 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 chines 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 thefr faces, Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road-side. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, Turned onits pillow of pain to gaze whileshe passed, for her presence Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever.
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time;
Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
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 anguishi, '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 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 that 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 darkuess, Darkness of slumber and death, for ever 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 childhooil; 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,
, 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,
labours, 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. 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, neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsulate answers the wail of the
The Seaside and the Fireside.
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,
By every friendly sign and salutation.
Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token,
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
Spake 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 for ever young in my remembrance. Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away!
Your gentle voices will flow on for ever, 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 endeavour for the selfsame ends,
With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.