147

V.

IN that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's 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,

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 Leblanc had died; and when he

departed,

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 coun

try,

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers

and sisters.

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed

endeavour,

Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, un

complaining,

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

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning

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.

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 deathlike 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;

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.

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to

follow

Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.