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In that
delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's
waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn
the apostle,
Stands on the banks of its beautiful
stream the city he founded.
There all the air is
balm, and the peach is emblem of beauty,
And the
streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the
forest,
As if they fain would appease the Dryads
whose haunts they molested.
There from the troubled
sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
Finding among
the children of Penn a home and a country.
There old
Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed,
Saw at
his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of
the city,
Something that spake to her heart, and made
her no longer a stranger;
And her ear was pleased
with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,
For it
recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
Where all
men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed
endeavour,
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth,
uncomplaining,
Thither, as leaves to the light, were
turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
As from a
mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
Roll
away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and
hamlets,
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw
the world far below her
Dark no longer, but all
illumined with love; and the pathway
Which she had
climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his
image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, at
last she beheld him,
Only more beautiful made by his
deathlike silence and absence.
Into her thoughts of
him time entered not, for it was not.
Over him years
had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not
absent;
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion
to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and
sorrow had taught her.
So was her love diffused, but,
like to some odorous spices,
Suffered no waste nor
loss, though filling the air with aroma.
Other hope
had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly,
with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy;
frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded
lanes of the city,
Where distress and want concealed
themselves from the sunlight,
Where disease and
sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
Night after
night, when the world was asleep, as the watchmen
repeated
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all
was well in the city,
High at some lonely window he
saw the light of her taper.
Day after day, in the
gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
Plodded
the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the
market,
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home
from its watchings.
Then it came to pass that a
pestilence fell on the city,
Presaged by wondrous
signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
Darkening the sun in their flight, with nought in their
craws by an acorn.
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,
So
death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of
existence.
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty
to charm, the oppressor;
But all perished alike
beneath the scourge of his anger; -
Only, alas! the
poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept
away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows
and woodlands; -
Now the city surrounds it; but
still, with its gateway and wicket
Meek, in the midst
of splendour, its humble walls seem to echo
Softly
the words of the Lord: -"The poor ye always have with
you."
Thither, by night and by day, came the sister
of mercy. The dying
Looked up into her face, and
thought, indeed, to behold there
Gleams of celestial
light encircle her forehead with splendour,
Such as
the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a
distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the
city celestial,
Into whose shining gates ere long
their spirits would enter.
Thus, on a Sabbath
morn, through the streets deserted and silent
Wending
her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
Sweet on the summer air was the odour 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 beauty.
Then, as she
mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east
wind,
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes
from the belfry of Christ Church,
While intermingled
with these, across the meadows were wafted
Sounds of
psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at
Wicaco.
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the
hour on her spirit;
Something within her said, -"At
length thy trials are ended;"
And, with light in her
looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous careful
attendants,
Moistening the feverish lip, and the
aching brow, and in silence
Closing the sightless
eyes of their dead, and concealing their faces,
Where
on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the
road-side.
Many a languid head, upraised as
Evangeline entered,
Turned on its pillow of pain to
gaze while she passed, for her presence
Fell on their
hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
And, as she looked around, she saw how death, the
consoler,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had
healed it forever.
Many familiar forms had
disappeared in the night-time;
Vacant their places
were, or filled already by strangers.
Suddenly,
as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder
Still
she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a
shudder
Ran through her frame, and forgotten, the
flowerets dropped from her fingers,
And from her eyes
and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then
there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible
anguish,
That the dying heard it, and started up from
their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched
the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and gray were
the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in
the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to
assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
So
are wont to be changed the faces of those that are
dying.
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush
of the fever,
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood
had besprinkled his portals,
That the Angel of Death
might see the sign, and pass over.
Motionless,
senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the
darkness,
Darkness of slumber and death, for ever
sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of
shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that
cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and
saint-like,
"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away
into silence.
then he beheld, in a dream, once more
the home of his childhood;
Green Acadian meadows,
with sylvan rivers among them,
Village, and mountain,
and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
As in
the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his
eyelids,
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline
knelt by his bedside.
Vainly he strove to whisper her
name, for the accents unuttered
Died on his lips, and
their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling
beside him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head
on her bosom.
Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it
suddenly sank into darkness,
As when a lamp is blown
out by a gust of wind at a casement.
All was
ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied
longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant
anguish of patience!
And,as she pressed once more the
lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own,
and murmured, "Father, I thank Thee!"
* * * * * *
Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its
shadow,
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the
lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the
little Catholic churchyard,
In the heart of the city,
they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
Daily the tides of
life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of
throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever,
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are
busy,
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have
ceased from their labours,
Thousands of weary feet,
where theirs have completed their journey!
Still
stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its
branches
Dwells another race, with other customs and
language.
Only along the shore of the mournful and
misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose
fathers from exile
Wandered back to their native land
to die in its bosom.
In the fisherman's cot the wheel
and the loom are still busy;
Maidens still wear their
Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
And by the
evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,
While from
its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of
the forest.
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