Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils And at the head of the board the great armchair of the farmer.

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's love and forgiveness?

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.

Thus with violent deeds and hearts over. Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow flowing with hatred?

Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women,

Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; All was silent within; and in vain at the

Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah,,Gabriel!" cried she, aloud, with tremulous ascending to heaven.

Meanwhile had spread in the village the Slowly at length she returned to the tenant

Lighted the village street with mysterious In the dead of the night she heard the splendour, and roofed each

Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and Loud on the withered leaves of the sycaemblazoned its windows.

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey Told her that God was in heaven, and go

Then she remembered the tales she had,,Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexheard of the justice of heaven: haustible fountain! Soothed was her troubled soul, and she Fill our hearts this day with strength and peacefully slumbered till morning. submission and patience!"

V.

Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the way-side,

FOUR times the sun had risen and set, and Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds now on the fifth day in the sunshine above them

Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping Mingled their notes therewith, like voices maids of the farm-house. of spirits departed.

Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and

mournful procession,

Came from the neighbouring hamlets and Half-way down to the shore Evangeline farms the Acadian women,

waited in silence,

Driving in ponderous wains their house- Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hold goods to the sea-shore, hour of affliction,

Pausing and looking back to gaze once more Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her,

on their dwellings,

Ere they were shut from sight by the wind- And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale ing road and the woodlands. with emotion.

Close at their sides their children ran, and Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly

All day long between the shore and the Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how

ships did the boats ply;

changed was his aspect!

All day long the wains came labouring down Gone was the glow from his cheek, and from the village.

Late in the afternoon, when the sun was

near to his setting,

the fire from his eye, and his footstep Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his bosom.

Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of But, with a smile and a sigh, she clasped

drums from the church-yard.

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 journeyed afar from

their homes and their country, Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way-worn,

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended

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

Down from the church to the shore, amid Left on the land, extending their arms,

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:

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

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,

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp But with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the

and the slippery sea-weed.

Farther back, in the midst of the household

goods and the wagons,

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

Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a More he fain would have said, but his heart battle, was full, and his accents All escape cut off by the sea and the senti- Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,

nels near them,

Lay encamped for the night the houseless
Acadian farmers.

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the
bellowing ocean,

Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.

Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,

Dragging adown the beach the rattling Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars that above them

pebbles, and leaving

Inland and far up the shore the stranded Moved on their way, unperturbed by the

boats of the sailors.

wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Then, as the night descended, the herds Then sat he down at her side, and they

returned from their pastures;

Sweet was the moist still air with the odour

of milk from their udders;

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well

known bars of the farm-yard,

wept together in silence.

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

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, the hand of the milk-maid.

and o'er the horizon

Silence reigned in the streets; from the Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon

church no Angelus sounded,

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

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,

But on the shores meanwhile the evening Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the fires had been kindled,

ships that lay in the roadstead.

Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands Columns of shining smoke uprose, and

from wrecks in the tempest.

Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered.

flashes of flame were

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. Voices of women were heard, and of men, Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the and the crying of children. burning thatch, and, uplifting,

Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops

hearth in his parish,

Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of

blessing and cheering,

Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's de

solate sea-shore.

Thus he approached the place where Evan-
geline 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,

flame intermingled.

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on 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 Pré!"

in the church-yard."

Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the farm yards, Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle

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

Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,

Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand Pré.

the sleeping encampments

Far in the western prairies or forests that And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,

skirt the Nebraska,

When the wild horses affrighted sweep by Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice with the speed of the whirlwind,

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes

rush to the river.

of a vast congregation,

Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.

Such was the sound that arose on the night, 'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the

as the herds and the horses

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.

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;

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speech- And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed

Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, MANY a weary year had passed since the and the maiden

burning of Grand Pré,

Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud When on the falling tide the freighted vessels in her terror.

departed,

Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, 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 Scattered were they, like flakes of snow,

mournfully gazing upon her,

when the wind from the north-east

Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of sad- Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken

dest 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.

the Banks of Newfoundland. Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,

-

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry
southern savannahs,
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands
where the Father of Waters

Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them to the people, —

,,Let us bury him here by the sea. When Deep in their sands to bury the scattered

a happier season

bones of the mammoth.

Brings us again to our homes from the Friends they sought and homes; and many,

unknown land of our exile,

despairing, heart-broken,

ana."

Asked of the earth but a grave, and no He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisilonger a friend nor a fireside. Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the church-yards.

Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,

Then would they say,-,,Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently Who have hearts as tender and true, and suffering all things.

spirits as loyal?

Fair was she and young; but, alas! before Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son,

who has loved thee

her extended, Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of Many a tedious year; come, give him thy

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;

hand and be happy!

Thou art too fair to be left to braid Saint
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."

As if a morning of June, with all its music And thereupon the priest, her friend and and sunshine, father-confessor, Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, Said, with a smile,-,,O, daughter! thy God slowly, descended thus speaketh within thee!

Into the east again, from whence it late had Talk not of wasted affection, affection never arisen. was wasted; Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged If it enrich not the heart of another, its by the fever within her, waters, returning

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and Back to their springs, like the rain, shall thirst of the spirit, fill them full of refreshment;

She would commence again her endless That which the fountain sends forth returns search and endeavour;

Sometimes in church-yards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tomb-stones, 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 rumour, 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 Lajeunnesse!" said they; „O, 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 Lajeunnesse!" said others; „O,
yes! we have seen him.

again to the fountain.