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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 north_east
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 endeavour;
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 rumour, 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!" said others; "O, 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 they
would 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."
And 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 labour; accomplish thy work of affection!
Sorrow
and silence are strong, and patient endurance is
godlike,
Therefore accomplish thy labour 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
laboured 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.
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