Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on

the thorn by the wayside,

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the

brown shade of her tresses!

Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that

feed in the meadows.

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers

at noontide

Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret

Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop

Sprinkles 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.

But a celestial brightness a more ethereal

beauty

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 farmer

Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea;

and a shady

Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine

wreathing around it.

Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath;

and a footpath

Led 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-grown

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.

Shielding the house from storms on the north.

were the barns and the farmyard.

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 selfsame

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent

Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and

a staircase,

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous

corn-loft.

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and

innocent inmates,

Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the

farmer of Grand-Pré

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed

his household.

Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,

Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion;

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!

Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness

befriended,

And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound

of her footsteps,

Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the

knocker of iron;

Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the

village,

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance

as he whispered

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the

music.