Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409432" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Evangeline: Part The First. I.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,<br>Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré<br>Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,<br>Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.<br>Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,<br>Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates<br>Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.<br>West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields<br>Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward<br>Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains<br>Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic<br>Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.<br>There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.<br>Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,<br>Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.<br>Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting<br>Over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way.<br>There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset<br>Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,<br>Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles<br>Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden<br>Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors<br>Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.<br>Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children<br>Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.<br>Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,<br>Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.<br>Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank<br>Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry<br>Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village<br>Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,<br>Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.<br>Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,-<br>Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from<br>Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.<br>Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;<br>But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;<br>There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,<br>Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,<br>Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,<br>Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.<br>Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;<br>Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;<br>White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.<br>Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.<br>Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,<br>Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!<br>Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.<br>When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide<br>Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.<br>Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret<br>Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop<br>Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,<br>Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,<br>Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,<br>Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,<br>Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.<br>But a celestial brightness-a more ethereal beauty-<br>Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,<br>Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.<br>When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer<br>Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady<br>Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.<br>Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath<br>Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.<br>Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,<br>Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,<br>Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.<br>Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown<br>Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.<br>Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,<br>There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;<br>There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,<br>Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame<br>Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.<br>Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one<br>Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,<br>Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.<br>There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates<br>Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes<br>Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré<br>Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.<br>Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,<br>Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion;<br>Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!<br>Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,<br>And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,<br>Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;<br>Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,<br>Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered<br>Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.<br>But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;<br>Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,<br>Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;<br>For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,<br>Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.<br>Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood<br>Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,<br>Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters<br>Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.<br>But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,<br>Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.<br>There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him<br>Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,<br>Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel<br>Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.<br>Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness<br>Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,<br>Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,<br>And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,<br>Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.<br>Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,<br>Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.<br>Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,<br>Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow<br>Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;<br>Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!<br>Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.<br>He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,<br>Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened through into action.<br>She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.<br>'Sunshine of Saint Eulalie' was she called; for that was the sunshine<br>Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;<br>She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,<br>Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409432" data-title="Evangeline: Part The First. I. de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without num..."></div>
</div>
</div>