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=409436" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Evangeline: Part The First. V.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">FOUR times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day<br>Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.<br>Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,<br>Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,<br>Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,<br>Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,<br>Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.<br>Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,<br>While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach<br>Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.<br>All day long between theshore and the ships did the boats ply;<br>All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.<br>Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,<br>Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.<br>Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors<br>Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession<br>Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.<br>Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,<br>Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,<br>So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended<br>Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.<br>Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,<br>Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:-<br>'Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!<br>Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!'<br>Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside<br>Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them<br>Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,<br>Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,-<br>Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,<br>And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.<br>Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,<br>Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder and whispered,-<br>'Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another,<br>Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!'<br>Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father<br>Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!<br>Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep<br>Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.<br>But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,<br>Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.<br>Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.<br>Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion<br>Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children<br>Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.<br>So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,<br>While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.<br>Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight<br>Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean<br>Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach<br>Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.<br>Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,<br>Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,<br>All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,<br>Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.<br>Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,<br>Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving<br>Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.<br>Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;<br>Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;<br>Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,-<br>Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.<br>Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,<br>Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,<br>Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.<br>Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,<br>Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.<br>Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,<br>Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,<br>Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.<br>Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,<br>And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,<br>Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,<br>E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.<br>Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,<br>Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,<br>But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.<br>'Benedicite!' murmured the priest; in tones of compassion.<br>More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents<br>Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,<br>Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.<br>Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,<br>Raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them<br>Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.<br>Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red<br>Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon<br>Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,<br>Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.<br>Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,<br>Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.<br>Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were<br>Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.<br>Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,<br>Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops<br>Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.<br>Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,<br>'We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!'<br>Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,<br>Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle<br>Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.<br>Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments<br>Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,<br>When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,<br>Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.<br>Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses<br>Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden<br>Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;<br>And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,<br>Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore<br>Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.<br>Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden<br>Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.<br>Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.<br>Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;<br>And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.<br>Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,<br>Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.<br>Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,<br>Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,<br>And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.<br>Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,-<br>'Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season<br>Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,<br>Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.'<br>Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the seaside,<br>Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,<br>But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré.<br>And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,<br>Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,<br>Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.<br>'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,<br>With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.<br>Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;<br>And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,<br>Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.</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=409436" data-title="Evangeline: Part The First. V. de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="FOUR times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadia..."></div>
</div>
</div>