The Project Gutenberg EBook of Evangeline, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Title: Evangeline A Tale of Acadie

Author: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Posting Date: October 26, 2008 [EBook #2039] Release Date: January, 2000

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVANGELINE ***

Produced by Stewart A. Levin.

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-Pré.

    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-Pré
  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-Pré,
  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 of blue, and the ear-rings,
  Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
  Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
  But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—
  Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
  Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
  When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

    Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
  Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
  Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
  Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
  Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
  Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
  Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
  Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
  Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
  Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.