Childrens Own Longfellow | Page 2

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might
be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of
Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling
sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the
reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It
was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard
sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded
wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an
angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the
board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the
breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To
see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and
rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!

Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's
Woe!
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH Howard Smith
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door ]
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The
smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the
muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His
brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks
the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows
blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured
beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the
evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And
catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He
hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He
needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And
with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each

morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast
taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be
wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and
thought.
[Illustration: EVANGELINE
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music ]
EVANGELINE
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like
harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky
caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents
disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the
huntsman?
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
ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of
Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye
who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the
mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of

Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
PART THE FIRST
I
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant,
secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley.
Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name,
and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the
farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides; but
at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to
wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields