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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 labour
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 labour 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,
Bending
with 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Not far withdrawn from these,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.
Gaily 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 ere long was the church with men. Without, in
the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the
graves, and hung on the head-stones
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 spake 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 doorway,
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
laboured 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 ardour 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 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 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 disconsolate 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, until, 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 stood 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 whispering 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.
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