Evangeline

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,

  No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,

  Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.”

  Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,

  And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table,

  So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,

  Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils.

  But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer—

  “Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!

  For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,

  Cured by wearing a spider hung round one’s neck in a nutshell!”

  Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching

  Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda.

  It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,

  Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman.

  Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors;

  Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,

  Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,

  Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.

  But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding

  From the accordant strings of Michael’s melodious fiddle,

  Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,

  All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening

  Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,

  Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.

  Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman

  Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;

  While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her

  Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music

  Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness

  Came o’er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.

  Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,

  Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river

  Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,

  Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.

  Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden

  Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions

  Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.

  Fuller of fragrance then they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,

  Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight

  Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,

  As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the oak-trees,

  Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.

  Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and the fire-flies

  Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.

  Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,

  Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,

  Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,

  As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”

  And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,

  Wandered alone, and she cried—“O Gabriel! O my beloved!

  Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?

  Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?

  Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!

  Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!

  Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,

  Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers.

  When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?”

  Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded

  Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,

  Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.

  “Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;

  And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”

  Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden

  Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses

  With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.

  “Farewell!” said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;

  “See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,

  And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming.”

  “Farewell!” answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended

  Down to the river’s brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.

  Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine and gladness,

  Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,

  Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.

  Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,

  Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,

  Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain

  Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country,

  Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,

  Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord,

  That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,

  Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.

  IV

  FAR in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains

  Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.

  Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,

  Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant’s wagon,

  Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.

  Eastward, with devious course, among the Windriver Mountains,

  Through the Sweetwater Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;

  And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,

  Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,

  Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,

  Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.

  Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,

  Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,

  Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.

  Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;

  Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;

  Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;

  Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael’s children,

  Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails

  Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,

  Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,

  By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.

  Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;

  Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;

  And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,

  Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by
the brookside,

  And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,

  Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.

  Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,

  Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.

  Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil

  followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o’ertake him.

  Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire

  Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,

  When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.

  And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,

  Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana

  Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.

  Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered

  Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features

  Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.

  She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,

  From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,

  Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.

  Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome

  Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them

  On the buffalo meat and the venison cooked on the embers.

  But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,

  Worn with the long day’s march and the chase of the deer and the bison,

  Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering firelight

  Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,

  Then at the door of Evangeline’s tent she sat and repeated

  Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,

  All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.

  Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another

  Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.

  Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman’s compassion,

  Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,

  She in turn related her love and all its disasters.

  Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended

  Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror

  Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;

  Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,

  But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,

  Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,

  Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.

  Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seem like a weird incantation,

  Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,

  That, through the pines o’er her father’s lodge, in the hush of the twilight,

  Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,

  Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,

  And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people.

  Silent with wonder and strange surprise Evangeline listened

  To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her

  Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.

  Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,

  Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor

  Touching the somber leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.

  With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches

  Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.

  Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline’s heart, but a secret,

  Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,

  As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.

  It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits

  Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment

  That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.

  And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.

  Early upon the morrow the march was 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—

  “Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!”

  Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,

  Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,

  And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,

  Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.

  Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,

  Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened

  High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines,

  Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.

  This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches

  Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,

  Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.

  Silent, with heads uncovered, the travelers, nearer approaching,

  Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.

  But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen

  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 mother tongue 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,

  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 kindness;

  But on Evangeline’s heart fell his words as in winter the snowflakes

  Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.

  “Far to the north he has gone,” continued the priest; “but in autumn,

  When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.”

  Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive—

  “Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.”

  So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,

  Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,

  Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.

  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 interlacing, and forming

  Cloiste
rs for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.

  Then in the golden weather the maize was busked, 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 cornfield.

  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 delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,

  See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;

  It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended

  Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveler’s journey

  Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.

  Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,

  Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,

  But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

  Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter

  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.

  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 began the long journey;

  Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.

  Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,