Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. And the barking of the farmer's dog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bareGaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. And the twitter of birds among the trees, You know the rest. In the books you have read, So through the night rode Paul Revere; A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 790 KILLED AT THE FORD He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, Whom all eyes followed with one consent, Only last night, as we rode along, He was humming the words of some old song: And another he bore at the point of his sword.' Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still; We lifted him up to his saddle again, And laid him as if asleep on his bed; And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp And one, just over his heart, blood-red! And I saw in a vision how far and fleet Without a murmur, without a cry; And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, 791 EVANGELINE A TALE OF ACADIE This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,— Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood lands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines cf the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. PART THE FIRST I In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. |