Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!" FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND." The Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was originally written in Latin in the thirteenth century by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican friar. It was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean de Vigney, and into English in the fifteenth by William Caxton. I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, and Charity. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century.-Note by the Author. THE SCRIPTORIUM OF THE CONVENT. (Friar Pacificus transcribing and illuminating.) Friar Pacificus. It is growing dark! Yet one line more, And then my work for to-day is o'er. I come again to the name of the Lord! That is spoken so lightly among men, Thus have I laboured on and on, Of this same gentle Evangelist, That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, It has a very awful look, As it stands there at the end of the book, Like the sun in an eclipse. Ah me! when I think of that vision divine, I stand in awe of the terrible curse, Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse, Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, This is well written, though I say it! I should not be afraid to display it, Would not bear away the palm from mine There, now, is an initial letter! King René himself never made a better ! Into my heart, and into my brain, Written out with much toil and pain; Take it, O Lord, and let it be As something I have done for thee! FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA." This Indian Edda-if I may so call it—is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and fishinggrounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. He was known among different tribes by the several names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. other curious Indian legends. ... Into this old tradition I have woven The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand Sable.-Note by the Author. TO THE READER. YE who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries :-- To this Song of Hiawatha ! Ye who love a nation's legends, |