Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)

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Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 29

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


  Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies;

  Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, 1090

  Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.

  Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;

  Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;

  Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;

  Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael’s children, 1095

  Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails

  Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,

  Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,

  By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.

  Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders; 1100

  Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;

  And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,

  Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side,

  And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,

  Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 1105

  Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,

  Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.

  Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil

  Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o’ertake him.

  Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 1110

  Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,

  When they had reached the place they found only embers and ashes.

  And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,

  Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana

  Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. 1115

  Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered

  Into their little camp an Indian woman, whose features

  Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.

  She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,

  From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 1120

  Where her Canadian husband, a Coureurdes-Bois, had been murdered.

  Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome

  Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them

  On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.

  But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, 1125

  Worn with the long day’s march and the chase of the deer and the bison,

  Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light

  Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,

  Then at the door of Evangeline’s tent she sat and repeated

  Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 1130

  All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.

  Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another

  Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.

  Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman’s compassion,

  Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, 1135

  She in turn related her love and all its disasters.

  Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended

  Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror

  Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;

  Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, 1140

  But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,

  Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,

  Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.

  Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,

  Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, 1145

  That through the pines o’er her father’s lodge, in the hush of the twilight,

  Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,

  Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,

  And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.

  Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 1150

  To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her

  Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.

  Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,

  Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor

  Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. 1155

  With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches

  Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.

  Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline’s heart, but a secret,

  Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,

  As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. 1160

  It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits

  Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment

  That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.

  With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.

  Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee 1165

  Said, as they journeyed along, “On the western slope of these mountains

  Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.

  Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus.

  Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him.”

  Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, 1170

  “Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!”

  Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,

  Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,

  And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,

  Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. 1175

  Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,

  Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened

  High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines,

  Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.

  This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 1180

  Of 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 fallen 1185

  Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,

  Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them

  Welcome; 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. 1190

  There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear

  Feasted, 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, seated

  On this mat by my side,
where now the maiden reposes, 1195

  Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!”

  Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;

  But on Evangeline’s heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes

  Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.

  “Far to the north he has gone,” continued the priest; “but in autumn, 1200

  When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.”

  Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,

  “Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.”

  So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,

  Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, 1205

  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 springing

  Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her,

  Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming 1210

  Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.

  Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens

  Blushed 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. 1215

  “Patience!” the priest would say; “have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!

  Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow,

  See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet;

  This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted

  Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller’s journey 1220

  Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.

  Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,

  Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,

  But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

  Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 1225

  Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe.”

  So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel came not;

  Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird

  Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.

  But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 1230

  Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.

  Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,

  Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River.

  And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,

  Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 1235

  When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,

  She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,

  Found she the hunter’s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!

  Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places

  Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden; — 1240

  Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravain Missions,

  Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,

  Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.

  Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.

  Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; 1245

  Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.

  Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,

  Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.

  Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o’er her forehead,

  Dawn of another life, that broke o’er her earthly horizon, 1250

  As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.

  V

  In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware 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 the emblem of beauty, 1255

  And the streets still reëcho 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 René Leblane had died; and when he departed, 1260

  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, 1265

  Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.

  So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,

  Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,

  Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.

  As from the mountain’s top the rainy mists of the morning 1270

  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. 1275

  Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,

  Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,

  Only more beautiful made by his death-like 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; 1280

  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. 1285

  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, 1290

  Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.

  Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 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 1295

  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 naught in their craws but an acorn. 1300

  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; 1305

  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 1310

  Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seemed 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 splendor, 1315

  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 erelong their spirits would enter.

  Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, 1320

  Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.

  Sweet on the summer air was the odor 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, 1325

  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;” 1330

  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 the dead, and concealing their faces,

  Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. 1335

  Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,

 

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