Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,

Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.

Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,

Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.

Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.

Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all

things.

Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her ex

tended,

Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway

Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,

Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,

As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by

Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.

Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;

As if a morning of June, with all its music and sun

shine,

Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly de

scended

E

Into the East again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,

She would commence again her endless search and endeavour;

Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,

Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom

He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.

Sometimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whis

per,

Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.

Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him;

But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.

“Gabriel Lajeunesse !" said they; "oh, yes! we have seen him.

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;

Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers."

"Gabriel Lajeunesse !" said others; "oh, yes! we have seen him.

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." Then would they say:-"Dear child, why dream and wait for him longer?

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel?

others

Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as

loyal?

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee

Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!

Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."

Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly:"I cannot;

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness."

And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,

Said, with a smile :-"O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, re

turning

Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

Patience; accomplish thy labour; accomplish thy work of affection.

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance

is godlike.

Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made godlike,

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!"

Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and waited.

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the

ocean,

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not !"

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.

Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's foot

steps;

Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley :

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water

Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals

only;

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,

Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous

murmur;

Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.

II.

It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,

Past the Ohio shore, and past the mouth of the Wa

bash,

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mis

sissippi,

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.

It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating to

gether,

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;

Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,

Sought for their kith and their kin among the fewacred farmers

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Ope

lousas.

With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.

Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests,

Day after day they glided adown the turbulent

river;

Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.