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Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the

refluent ocean Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the

sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the

slippery sea-weed. Farther back, in the midst of the household goods

and the waggons, Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, All escape cut off by the sea and the sentinels near

them, Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian

farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellow

ing ocean, Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles,

and leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of

the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds returned

from their pastures; Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk

from their udders; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known

bars of the farmyardWaited and looked in vain for the voice and the

hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no

Angelus sounded, Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no

lights from the windows. But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires

had been kindled, Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from

wrecks in the tempest. Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces

were gathered, Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the

crying of children.

Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth

in his parish, Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and bless

ing and cheering, Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate

sea-shore. Thus he approached the place where Evangeline

sat with her father, And in the flickering light beheld the face of the

old man Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either

thought or emotion, E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands

have been taken. Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses

to cheer him, Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he

looked not, he spake not, But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flicker

ing firelight. " Benedicite!murmured the priest in tones of

compassion. More he fain would have said, but his heart was

full, and his accents Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a

child on a threshold, Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful

presence of sorrow. Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of

the maiden, Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars

that above them Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs

and sorrows of mortals. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept to

gether in silence.

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in

autumn the blood-red

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Moon climbs the crystal walls of leaven, and o'er

the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon moun

tain and meadow, Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge

shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs

of the village, Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that

lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke arose, and flashes of

flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the

quivering hands of a martyr. Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burn

ing thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from

a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke, with the flashes of flame

intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on

shore and on shipboard. Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in

their anguish, " We shall behold no more our homes in the vil

lage of Grand Pré !" Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the

farmyards, Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the low

ing of cattle Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of

dogs interrupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the

sleeping encampments Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the

Nebraska, When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the

speed of the whir'wind,

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to

the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the

herds and the horses Broke through their folds and fences, and madly

rushed o'er the meadows.

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the

priest and the maiden Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and

widened before them; And as they turned at length to speak to their

silent companion, Lɔ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched

abroad on the sea-shore Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had

departed. Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the

maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her

terror. Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head

on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious

slumber; And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a

multitude near her, Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully

gazing upon her. Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest com

passion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the

landscape, Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the

faces around her, And like the day of doom it seemed to her waver.

ing senses. Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the


“Let us bury him here by the sea.

When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown

land of our exile, Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the

churchyard." Such were the words of the priest. And there in

haste by the sea-side, Having the glare of the burning village for funeral

torches, But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of

Grand Pré. And as the voice of the priest repeated the service

of sorrow, Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a

vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar

with the dirges. 'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste

of the ocean, With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and

hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of

embarking; And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out

of the harbour, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and

the village in ruins.

Part the Second.


Many a weary year had passed since the burning

of Grand Pré, When on the falling tide the freighted vessels de

parted, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into


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