Evangeline: a Tale of Acadie

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? / 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.