"So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions.Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springingGreen from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and formingCloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidensBlushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field.Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover."Patience!" Support and Donate — Plum Village Practice Centers. © Academy of American Poets, 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038 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. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstonesGarlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among themEntered the sacred portal. Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled. Aloft, through the intricate archesOf its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching,Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallenForth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade themWelcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-earFeasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:—"Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seatedOn this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,Told me this same sad tale then arose and continued his journey! fair in sooth was the maiden,Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turretSprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssopSprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmerStood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shadySycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpathLed through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.Under the Sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grownBucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsameVoice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village.
All sounds were in harmony blended.Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sunLooked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forestFlashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favorite pasture. i really like this poem he is a true man. Behind the black wall of the forest,Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. SPILLAGE VILLAGE Willow Tree Lyrics (feat. the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold. 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 waterHere 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.It was the month of May. 06/14/2017 at 4:49 pm.
How soon the night overtakes us!In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forestSuddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming,Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight;Yet how grand is the winter!