resumed; and the Shawnee Said, as they journeyed along, 'On the western slope of these mountains 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, 520 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 mothertongue 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, 530 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 kind-. ness; 'Let us go to the Mission, for there good But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as tidings await us!' Thither they turned their steeds; and be bind a spur of the mountains, in winter the snow-flakes Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 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 in terlacing, 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 corn-field. 550 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 blos 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. 570 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 battle-fields 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 be gan the long journey; 580 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 fore head, Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware 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, 590 And the streets still reëcho 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 René 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 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 the mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 1 I fear that I cannot establish by any historic proof the identity of the old building you speak of in your kind letter, with that in which Evangeline found Gabriel. A great many years ago, strolling through the streets of Philadelphia, I passed an old almshouse within high brick walls, and with trees growing in its enclosure. The quiet and seclusion of the place impressed me deeply. This was long before the poem was written and before I had heard the tradition on which it was founded. But remembering the place, I chose it for the final scene. (LONGFELLOW, in a letter to Miss E. S. Phelps, March 12, 1876; Life, vol. iii, pp. 259, 260.) This visit to Philadelphia was made fifty years before, in 1826, when Longfellow was waiting at New York for the ship which was to take him on his first trip to Europe. 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 death-like. 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; 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. 620 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 630 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, 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 seemed to echo Softly the words of the Lord: 'The poor ye always have with you.' Thither, by night and by day, came the into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 650 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. 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, 670 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. 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, 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, 700 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. 710 All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, |