Evangeline | Page 7

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 labored 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,?And 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 ardor 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 been 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 the 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, till, 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.
V.
FOUR times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day?Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.?Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,?Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,?Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,?Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,?Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.?Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,?While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach?Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.?All day long between theshore and the ships did the boats ply;?All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.?Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,?Echoed far o'er the fields came