Evangeline

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.”

  “Not so thinketh the folk in the village,” said, warmly, the blacksmith,

  Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued—

  “Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.

  Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,

  Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.

  Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;

  Nothing is left but the blacksmith’s sledge and the scythe of the mower.”

  Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:

  “Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,

  Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,

  Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy’s cannon.

  Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow

  Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.

  Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village

  Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,

  Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.

  Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.

  Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?”

  As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover’s,

  Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,

  And as they died on his lips the worthy notary entered.

  III

  BENT like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,

  Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;

  Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung

  Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows

  Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.

  Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred

  Children’s children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.

  Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,

  Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.

  Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,

  Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple and childlike.

  He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;

  For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,

  And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,

  And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened

  Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;

  And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,

  And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,

  And of the marvelous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,

  With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.

  Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,

  Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,

  “Father Leblanc,” he exclaimed, “thou hast heard the talk in the village,

  And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand.”

  Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public—

  “Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;

  And what their errand may be I know not better than others.

  Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention

  Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?”

  “God’s name!” shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;

  “Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?

  Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!”

  But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public—

  “Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice

  Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,

  When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.”

  This was the old man’s favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it

  When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.

  “Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,

  Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice

  Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,

  And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided

  Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.

  Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,

  Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.

  But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;

  Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty

  Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman’s palace

  That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion

  Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.

  She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,

  Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.

  As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,

  Lo! o’er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder

  Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand

  Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,

  And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,

  Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven.”

  Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith

  Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;

  All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors

  Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.

  Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,

  Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed

  Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;

  While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,

  Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,

  Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.

  Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,

  And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.

  Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table

  Three times the old man’s fee in solid pieces of silver;

  And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,

  Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.

  Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,

  While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,

  Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.

  Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men

  Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,

  Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.

  Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window’s embrasure,

  Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise

  Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.

  Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,

  Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

  Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry
<
br />   Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway

  Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.

  Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep

  Lingered long in Evangeline’s heart, and filled it with gladness.

  Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearthstone,

  And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.

  Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.

  Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,

  Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.

  Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.

  Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press

  Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded

  Linen and woolen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.

  This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,

  Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.

  Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight

  Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden

  Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.

  Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with

  Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!

  Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,

  Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.

  Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness

  Passed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight

  Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.

  And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass,

  Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,

  As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!

  IV

  PLEASANTLY rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.

  Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,

  Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.

  Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor

  Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.

  Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighboring hamlets,

  Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.

  Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk

  Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,

  Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,

  Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.

  Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.

  Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors

  Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together,

  Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;

  For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,

  All things were held in common, and what one had was another’s.

  Yet under Benedict’s roof hospitality seemed more abundant:

  For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;

  Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness

  Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.

  Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,

  Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.

  There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;

  There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.

  Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,

  Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.

  Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white

  Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler

  Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.

  Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,

  Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,

  And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.

  Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances

  Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;

  Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.

  Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict’s daughter!

  Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!

  So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous

  Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.

  Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,

  Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones

  Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.

  Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them

  Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor

  Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement—

  Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal,

  Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.

  Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,

  Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.

  “You are convened this day,” he said, “by his Majesty’s orders.

  Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,

  Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper

  Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.

  Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;

  Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds

  Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province

  Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there

  Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!

  Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty’s pleasure!”

  As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,

  Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones

  Beats down the farmer’s corn in the field and shatters his windows,

  Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,

  Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their inclosures;

  So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.

  Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose

  Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,

  And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway.

  Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations

  Rang through the house of prayer; and high o’er the heads of the others

  Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,

  As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.

  Flushed was his face and distorted with passion, and wildly he shouted—

  “Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!

  Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!”

  More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier

  Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.

  In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry conten
tion,

  Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician

  Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.

  Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence

  All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;

  Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful

  Spake he, as, after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.

  “What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?

  Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,

  Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!

  Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?

  Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?

  This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it

  Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?

  Lo! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you!

  See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!

  Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ‘O Father, forgive them!’

  Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,

  Let us repeat it now, and say, ‘O Father, forgive them!’”

  Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people

  Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate outbreak;

  And they repeated his prayer, and said, “O Father, forgive them!”

  Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar.

  Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,

  Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria

  Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,

  Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.

  Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides

  Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.

  Long at her father’s door Evangeline stood, with her right hand

  Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,

  Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each

  Peasant’s cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.

  Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;

  There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild flowers;