Part II, Section II

IT was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwreckedNation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmersOn the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness somber with forests,Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelikeCotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-barsLay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypressMet in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-airWaved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the heronsHome to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintlyFloated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventureSailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest.Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before themLay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulationsMade by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotusLifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vineHung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heavenLighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.

Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and care-worn.Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadnessSomewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows,And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers,Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maidenSaid with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician!Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy!Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning.Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surfaceIs as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,On the banks of the Têche are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavensBending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana."

With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizonLike a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forestSeemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feelingGlowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.Then from a neighboring thicket the mockingbird, wildest of singers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madnessSeemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree topsShakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.