Many a weary year had passed since the burning of
Grand-Pre,
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into
exile.
Exile without an end, and without an example in story.
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;
Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the
wind from the northeast
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks
of Newfoundland.
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from
city to city,
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern
savannas,—
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where
the Father of Waters
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down
to the ocean,
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of
the mammoth.
Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing,
heart-broken,
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend
nor a fireside.
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in
the churchyards.
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering
all things.
Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with
its pathway
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and
suffered before her,
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and
abandoned,
As the emigrant’s way o’er the Western
desert is marked by
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in
the sunshine.
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect,
unfinished;
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the
fever within her,
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst
of the spirit,
She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the
crosses and tombstones,
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps
in its bosom
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber
beside him.
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved
and known him,
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.
“Gabriel Lajeunesse!” they said; “yes!
we have seen him.
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone
to the prairies;
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and
trappers.”
“Gabriel Lajeunesse!” said others; “O
yes! we have seen him.
He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.”
Then would they say, “Dear child! why dream
and wait for him longer?
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as
loyal?
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary’s son,
who has loved thee
Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be
happy!
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine’s
tresses.”
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly,
“I cannot!
Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand,
and not elsewhere.
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines
the pathway,
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in
darkness.”
Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,
Said, with a smile, “O daughter! thy God thus
speaketh within thee!
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was
wasted;
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters,
returning
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them
full of refreshment;
That which the fountain sends forth returns again
to the fountain.
Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work
of affection!
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance
is godlike.
Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart
is made godlike,
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more
worthy of heaven!”
Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline
labored and waited.
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of
the ocean,
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that
whispered, “Despair not?”
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless
discomfort
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of
existence.
Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer’s
footsteps;—
Not through each devious path, each changeful year
of existence;
But as a traveller follows a streamlet’s course
through the valley:
Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam
of its water
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals
only;
Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms
that conceal it,
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous
murmur;
Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches
an outlet.
