Evangeline: a Tale of Acadie

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 / 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.