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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, forever 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, uGabriel! 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

lonjring, 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 awaj

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 forever, 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 ])wells 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.

THE GOLDEN LEGEND, 1851.

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