That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit

exhausted

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,

Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking.

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,

"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the

home of his childhood;

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind

at a casement.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear,

and the sorrow,

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied

longing,

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of

patience!

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee ! "

161

STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.

Under the humble walls of the little Catholic

church-yard,

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and

unnoticed.

Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever,

Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

Still stands the forest primeval; but under the

shade of its branches

Dwells another race, with other customs and

language.

Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic

Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers

from exile

Wandered back to their native land to die in its

bosom.

In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are

still busy ;