Chirps From The Nest: Where Did The Magic Go
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Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands,Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of SeptemberWrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honeyTill the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters assertedCold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sunLooked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forestFlashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré.Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous laborKnocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folkMade the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doorsSat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladnessFell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father FelicianEntered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silenceAll that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournfulSpake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.\"What is this that ye do, my children what madness has seized youForty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privationsHave you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgivenessThis is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane itThus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatredLo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'\"Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peopleSank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,While they repeated his prayer, and said, \"O Father, forgive them!\"
But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake notBut, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.\"Benedicite!\" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accentsFaltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above themMoved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.\"Long live Michael,\" they cried, \"our brave Acadian minstrel!\"As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightwayFather Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old manKindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith,All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his who would take them;Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda,Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of BasilWaited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.
Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the gardenBathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tressesWith the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.\"Farewell!\" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;\"See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming.\"\"Farewell!\" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descendedDown to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertainRumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate Country;Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord,That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.
Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountainsLift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon,Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains,Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trailsCircles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side,And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 153554b96e
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