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 case

ment.

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!"

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 un

noticed.

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 labours;

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;

Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighbouring

ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,

Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go;

Or where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves
The shadows hardly move.

Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,
With one continuous sound ;-

A slumberous sound,- -a sound that brings The feelings of a dream,

As of innumerable wings,

As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings
O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,
Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,
Like ships upon the sea;

Dreams that the soul of youth engage
Ere Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage.
Tales that have the rime of age,
And chronicles of eld.

And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng

I feel the freshness of the streams,

That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams,

The holy land of song.