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

Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers nearer approaching,

Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotious,

lint when the service was done, and the benedietion hnd fallen

Forth from the hands of the priest, like seeds from the hands of the sower,

Slowly the reverend nmn advanced to the strangers, and bade them

Welcome; and when they replied he smiled with beniguant expression.

Hearing the home-like sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest.

And with words of kinduess condueted them into his wigwam.

There upon mats and skius they reposed, and on cakes of the maize ear

Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gonrd of the teacher.

Soon was their story told; and the priest with soleumity auswered:—

"Not six suus have risen acd set since Galiriel, seated

On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,

Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continned his jonrney!"

Soft was the voice of the priest and he spake with an aecent of kinduess;

Bnt on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the suow-flakes

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

"Far to the north he has gone," continned the priest: bnt in antumn,

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 sonl is sad and afflieted."

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

Monnting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guide and companious,

Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, the days sncceeded each other.—
Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing
Green from the gronnd when a stranger she came, now waving above her.
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
Cloisters for mendicantcrows and granaries pillaged by squirrels:
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, andthe maideus
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
Bnt at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline bronght not her lover.
"Patience!" the priest wonld say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be auswered.
Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
See how its leaves all point to the north, as trne as the magnet;
It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended
Here on its fragile stalk, to direet the traveller's jonrney
Over the sea-like, pathiess, limitless waste of the desert.
Snch in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion.
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are fuller and brighter of fragrance.
Bnt they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odonr is deadly.
Ouly 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 antuum, and passed, and the winter,—yet Gabriel c:!mc not;
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes »f the robin and blne-bird
Sounded sweet upon the wold, and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
Bnt on the breath of the summer winds a rumonr was wafted
Sweeter than song of bird, or hne or odonr of blossom.
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
Gabriel had his lodge by the ban.ks of the Saginaw river.
And, with returning guides that songht the lakes of St. Lawrence,
Saying a sad farewell. Evangeline went from the Mission.
When overweary ways, by long and perilons marehes,
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
Fonnd she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin I

Thus did the long sad vears glide on, and in seasous and places
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ;—
Now in the tents of grace of the meek Moravian Missious,
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
Now in seclnded hamlets, in towus and populons cities.
Like a phantom she came, and passed away uuremeinbered.
Fair was she and yonng, when in hope began the long jonrney;
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended,
Each sncceeding year stole something away from her beanty.
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of grey o'er her forehead,
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthiy horizon,
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.


In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Peun the apostle,
Stands on the'bunks of its beantiful stream the city he fonnded.
There all the air is baim, and the peach is the emblem of beanty.
And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest.
As if they fain wonld appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
There from the tronbled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
Flnding among the children of Peun a home and a conntry.
There old Ren6 Leblanc had died; and when he departed,


Saw at his side ouly one of all his hundred descendants.

Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city.

Something that spoke to her heart, and made her no loafer a .stranger;

And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thon of the yuakers,

F"or it recalled the past, the old Acadian coimtry, •

Where all men were equal, and all wore brothers and slaters.

So, when the fruitless seareh, the disappointed endeavonr,

Ended, to recommence no mure upon earth, uncomplaining,

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thonghts and her footsteps.

As from a monntain's top the ruUiy mists of the morning

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below u\

Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities und hamlets,

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the work) 'ar below her,

Dark no longer, bnt all illumined with love; aud the pathway

Which she had climbed so far. lying smooth and fair lb the distance.

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image.

Clothed in the beanty ot love and yonth, at last -he behelq him.

Ouly more beantiful made by his deathiike silence and absence.

Into her thonghts of him, time entered not, for it wa. s not.

Over him years had no power; he was not changed hnt tran-.iigured;

He had become to her heart as one who Is dead, and not absent;

Patience and abuegation of self, and devotion to othera,

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.

So was her love diffused, bnt, like to some odorons spices.

Suffered no waste nor loss, thongh tilling the air with aroma.

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life bnt to follow

Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of onr Savionr.

Thus mauy years she lived as a Sister of Merey; freqnenting

Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of tin.- city.

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished negleeted.

Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated

Lond, throngh the gusty streets, all that was well in the city,

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her tai*r.

Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow throngh the suburbs

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market.

Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from the watchings.

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city. Presaged by wondrons sigus, und mostly by flocks of wild pigeous, Darkening the sun in their ilight, with naught in their claws bnt uu acoru. And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, Ho death flooded life. and, o'erflowing its natural margin, Spread to a brakish hike the silver stream of existence, wealth had no power to bribe, nor beanty to charm, the oppressur; Bnt all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;— Oniy, alas I the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die In the aimshonse, home for the homeless. Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;— Now the city surronnds it; bnt still with its gateway and wicket Meek, in the midst of splendonr, its hmuble wall seem to Mho Softly the words of the Lord:—"The poor ye always have with yon." Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Merey. The dying Looked up into her face, and thonght. indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encireled her forehead with splendour, Snch as the artiste paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, Or snch as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distantc Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits wonld enter.

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, throngh the streets, deserted and silent. Wending her quiet way. she entered the door of the aimshonse. Sweet on the summer air was the odonr of flowers in the garden; And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them. That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beanty. Then, as she monnted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the cast wind. Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Chureh, While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted Sonnds of psaims, that were sung by the Swedes in their chureh at Wlcaco Soft as descending wings fell the caim of the honr on her spirit; Something within her said,—"At length thy trials are ended;" And. with light in her looks, she entered the chamber of sickness. Noiselessly moved abont the assiduons, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces. Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of suow by the roadside. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered. Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presenco Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked aronnd, she saw how Death, the cousoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed lt for ever. Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time; Vacant their places were, or filled aiready by strangers,


STlLL stands the forest primeval; bnt far away from its shadow,

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping,

llnd"i the immble wnll of the Uttle l'ntholic cimrehyard,

ln :he lnn ri of the city, they lie, nnknown and nunoticed.

ltnlly the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,

Thonsands nf ihrohbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever,

Thonsands of aching braius, where theirs no longer are bnsy,

Tinm'Hind. , of toiling bnnds, where thoirshave ceased from their labonrs,

Tin Hi'in mis of weary feet, where theirs have completed their lonrney l

SUM Minnds lln. forest primeval; bnt nnder the shade of its branches
Dwells another race, wiih other cnstoms gnd longnage.
i in l v a inn,: i ln. shores of the menrnfnl and misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whoso fathers from exile
Wandered back lo their native land to die in its bosom.
ln the iishennan's OOl lhe wheel und the looms are still bnsy;
Maideus still wear their Norman caps ami their kirtles of homespnn,
Ami by the evening tire si lt1 repeat Evangeline's story,
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbonring oeean,
Speaks, and in aceents discousolate auswers the wail of the forest.



Undee a spreading chestnnt-tree

The Tillage smithy stands:
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the umscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earus whate'er he can.
And looks the whole world in the,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week ont, from morn till night, Yon can hear his bellows blow,

Yon can hear him swing his heavy sledge.
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the chureh,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter s voice *

Singing in the village choir.

And it makes his heart rejoice: —

It sonnds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!
He needs umst think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rongh hand he wipes

A tear ont of his eyes.


Onward throngh life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees its close; Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thon hast taught!

Tims at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes umst be wronght;

Thus on its sonnding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thonght!


The rising moon has hid the stars;

Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And sliver white the river gleams,

As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On snch a tranquil night as this.
She woke Endymion with a kiss.
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like DIan'skiss, unasked, uusonght,
Love gives itself, bnt is not bonght;
Nor voice, nor sonnd betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,—the beantiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,—

In silence and alone

To seek the eleeted one.

It lifts the bonghs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the sonl's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping sonls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,

Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so aecursed by fate,
No one so ntterly desolate,

Bnt some heart, thongh unknown,

Responds unto his own ;—

Responds,—as if with uuseen wings
An angel tonched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
"Where hast thoit stayed so long?



A Youth, light-hearted and content,

I wander throngh the world; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent,

And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife

Close in my heart was locked,
And in the sweet repose of life

A blessed child I rocked.
I wake! Away that dream,—away!

Too long did it remain!
So long, that both by night and day

It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thonght;

To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beantiful was bronght,

Then dropt the child asleep.

Bnt now the dream is wholly o'er

I bathe mine eyes and see; And wander throngh the world once more,

A yonth so light and free.

Two locks,—and they are wondrons fair,—

Left me that vision mild;
The brown is from the mother's hair,

The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,

Pale grows the eveulng-red; And when the dark lock I behold,

I wish that I were dead.


—Spanish Procerb.

The sun is bright,—the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately eims I hear

The blne-bird prophesying Spring. So bine yon winding river flows.

It seems an ontlet from the sky, Where waiting till the west wind blows,

The freighted clonds at anchor lie.

All things are new;—the bnds, the leaves,
That gild the eim-tree's nodding crest,

And even the nest beneath the eaves ;—
There are no birds in last year's nest 1

All things rejoice in yonth and love,
The fuiness of their first delight!

And learn from the soft heaveus above
The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy yonth, it will not stay;

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh! it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Yonth,
To some good angel leave the rest;

For Time will teach thee soon the trnth,
There are no birds la last year's nest!


The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It raius, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the monldering wall,
Bnt at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It raius, and the wind is never weary.
My thonghts still cling to the monldering Past,
Bnt the hopes of yonth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clonds is the sun still shining,
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain umst fall,

Some days umst be dark and dreary.


I Liee that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-gronnd God's-Acre! It is just;

It cousecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown

The seed, that they had garnered in their
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the arehangel's
Shall wiunow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardeus of that second birth;

And each bright blossom mingle lts perfume With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rnde plonghshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of onr God, This is the place, where human harvests. grow!


Rivee! that in silence windest
Throngh the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thon findest
In the bosom of the sea!

Fonr long rears of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,

I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.

Tlion hast taught me, Silent River!

Many a lesson, deep and long; Thon liast been a generons giver:

I can give thee bnt a song.

Oft in saduess and in iliness,
I have watched thy current glide,

Till the beanty of iu stiliness
Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better honrs and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,

I have felt my heart beaf lighter.
And leap onward witfTthy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee.
Nor because thy waves of blua

From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hne.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,

And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,

And have made thy margin dear.

More than this;—thy name reminds mo
Of three friends, all trne and tried:

And that name, like magie, binds mc
Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my sonl with joy remembers!

How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers

On the hearth-stone of my heart!

'Tis for this, thon Silent River!

That my spirit leaus to thee; Thon hast been a generons giver,

Take this idle song from me.

Blind Baetimeus.

Blind Bartimeus at the gates

Of Jericho in darkness waits;

He hears the crowd:—he hears a breath

Sav '♦It is Christ of Nazareth!"

And calls, in tones of agony,

leson, elecson me.

The thronging umltitndes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
Bnt still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and lond;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!"
Tharsei, egcirai, phonei se.

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, "What wilt thon at my hands?"
And he replies, "O, give me light f
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!"
And Jesus auswers, Upage.
E pistis son sesoke se!

Ye that have eyes, yet enunot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
leson, eleeson me!
TharseU egeirat, upage!
E pistis son sesoke se!


Filled is Life's goblet to the brim:
And thongh my eyes with tears are dim,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
And chaunt a melancholy hyum
With soleum voice and slow.

No purplc flowers,—no garlands green,
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen.
Nor maddening draughts Hippocrene,'
Like gleams of suushine, flash between
Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wronght with curions art,
Is filled with water, that upstart.
When the deep fonntaius of the heart
By strong convulsious rent apart.
Are ruuning all to waste.

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