Evangeline

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Evangeline.
A Tale of Acadie.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like
harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its
rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in
accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the
huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian
farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the
woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of
heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever
departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of
October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er
the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of
Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List
to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a
Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
PART THE FIRST.

I
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 chestnut,
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
door-way.
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 the 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