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That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait!
“Mighty victor, mighty lord !
Low on his funeral couch he lies,
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
Gone to salute the rising morn.
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
“Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare ;
Close by the regal chair
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
“Edward, lo! to sudden fate
The thread is spun.)
The work is done.)
Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ?
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul !
“Girt with many a baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
In bearded majesty appear.
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Attempered sweet to virgin grace.
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
“ The verse adorn again
Fierce War and faithful Love,
In buskined measures move
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
That lost in long futurity expire.
Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me; with joy I see
The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and sceptered care;
To triumph and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. [HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW: An American poet; born at Portland, Me., February 27, 1807. He graduated from Bowdoin College at eighteen, having Nathaniel Hawthorne and Franklin Pierce as classmates. Appointed shortly after to the professorship of modern languages there, he spent two years in European travel to fit himself before assuming it. In 1836 he became professor of modern languages and literature at Harvard, and held the chair for eighteen years. He died at his home in Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882. His chief volumes of poetry are: “Voices of the Night" (1839), “Ballads, “Spanish Student,'
," " Evangeline," “ The Golden Legend," "The Song of Hiawatha," “ The Courtship of Miles Standish,” “ Tales of a Wayside Inn.” He also wrote in prose : “Outre-Mer," and the novels “ Hyperion " and “ Kavanagh."]
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
[huntsman ? Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the 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
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the basin of Minas,
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 north
ward Blomidon rose, and the forest 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 hemlock, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henrys. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows; and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 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.
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 snowflakes; 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 the 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.
Firmly built with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
the farmyard, There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique plows and
Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré