Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of
Grand-Pre.
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin
of Minas,
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were
riding at anchor.
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous
labor
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates
of the morning.
Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring
hamlets,
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the
young folk
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous
meadows,
Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels
in the greensward,
Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed
on the highway.
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor
were silenced.
Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups
at the house-doors
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped
together.
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and
feasted;
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers
together,
All things were held in common, and what one had was
another’s.
Yet under Benedict’s roof hospitality seemed
more abundant:
For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome
and gladness
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup
as she gave it.
Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of
betrothal.
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and
the notary seated;
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and
the beehives,
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of
hearts and of waistcoats.
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played
on his snow-white
Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face
of the fiddler
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown
from the embers.
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his
fiddle,
Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de
Dunkerque,
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying
dances
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
Old folk and young together, and children mingled
among them.
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict’s
daughter!
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the
blacksmith!
So passed the morning away. And lo! with a
summons sonorous
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows
a drum beat.
Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without,
in the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the graves,
and hung on the headstones
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from
the forest.
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly
among them
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant
clangor
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling
and casement,—
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will
of the soldiers.
Then uprose their commander, and spoke from the steps
of the altar,
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal
commission.
“You are convened this day,” he said,
“by his Majesty’s orders.
Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered
his kindness,
Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make
and my temper
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must
be grievous.
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our
monarch;
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle
of all kinds
Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves
from this province
Be transported to other lands. God grant you
may dwell there
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty’s
pleasure!”
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice
of summer,
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of
the hailstones
Beats down the farmer’s corn in the field and
shatters his windows,
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch
from the house-roofs,
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
So on the hearts of the people descended the words
of the speaker.
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and
then rose
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the
door-way.
Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce
imprecations
Rang through the house of prayer; and high o’er
the heads of the others
Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil
the blacksmith,
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and
wildly he shouted,—
“Down with the tyrants of England! we never
have sworn them allegiance!
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our
homes and our harvests!”
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand
of a soldier
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to
the pavement.
In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps
of the altar.
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed
into silence
All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his
people;
Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured
and mournful
Spake he, as, after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly
the clock strikes.
“What is this that ye do, my children? what
madness has seized you?
Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and
taught you,
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers
and privations?
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and
forgiveness?
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would
you profane it
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with
hatred?
Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing
upon you!
See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy
compassion!
Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ‘O
Father, forgive them!’
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked
assail us,
Let us repeat it now, and say, ‘O Father, forgive
them!’”
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts
of his people
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate
outbreak,
While they repeated his prayer, and said, “O
Father, forgive them!”
Then came the evening service. The tapers
gleamed from the altar.
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest and the
people responded,
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the
Ave Maria
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls,
with devotion translated,
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending
to heaven.
Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings
of ill, and on all sides
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and
children.
Long at her father’s door Evangeline stood,
with her right hand
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun,
that, descending,
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor,
and roofed each
Peasant’s cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned
its windows.
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on
the table;
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant
with wild-flowers;
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh
brought from the dairy;
And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair
of the farmer.
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father’s door,
as the sunset
Threw the long shadows of trees o’er the broad
ambrosial meadows.
Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial
ascended,—
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness,
and patience!
Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the
village,
Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts
of the women,
As o’er the darkening fields with lingering
steps they departed,
Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet
of their children.
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering
vapors
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending
from Sinai.
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline
lingered.
All was silent within; and in vain at the door and
the windows
Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome
by emotion,
“Gabriel!” cried she aloud with tremulous
voice; but no answer
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier
grave of the living.
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house
of her father.
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was
the supper untasted,
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms
of terror.
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of
her chamber.
In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate
rain fall
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by
the window.
Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the
echoing thunder
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the
world he created!
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the
justice of Heaven;
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully
slumbered till morning.
