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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,

25 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 cypress 30 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air

Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,

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Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 35 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, 40 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. 45 But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly

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Floated 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 peradventure

Sailed 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.

55 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. 60 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,

While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest,

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65 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 them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.

Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations

Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus

70 Lifted 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.
76 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.

80 Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine
Hung 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.
85 Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD.

[From The Song of Hiawatha, III, II. 97-234 (1855)]

At the door on summer evenings Right against the moon he threw her; Sat the little Hiawatha;

Heard the whispering of the pinetrees, Heard the lapping of the water, 5 Sounds of music, words of wonder; 'Minne-wawa!' said the pine-trees, 'Mudway-aushka!' said the water.

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, 10 With the twinkle of its candle

Lighting up the brakes and bushes; And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: 'Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 15 Little, flitting, white-fire insect,

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"Tis her body that you see there.'

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, so
In the eastern sky, the rainbow,
Whispered, 'What is that, Nokomis?'
And the good Nokomis answered:
"Tis the heaven of flowers you see
there;
All the wild-flowers of the forest,
All the lilies of the prairie,
When on earth they fade and perish,
Blossom in that heaven above us.'

When he heard the owls at mid-
night,
Hooting, laughing in the forest,
'What is that?' he cried in terror;
'What is that?' he said, 'Nokomis?'
And the good Nokomis answered:
"That is but the owl and owlet,
Talking in their native language,
Talking, scolding at each other.'
Then the little Hiawatha
Learned of every bird its language,
Learned their names and all their

secrets,

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How they built their nests in Summer, 50
Where they hid themselves in Winter,

Talked with them whene'er he met

them,

Called them 'Hiawatha's Chickens.' Of all beasts he learned the language, 55 Learned their names and all their secrets,

How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was to timid, 60 Talked with them whene'er he met them,

Called them 'Hiawatha's Brothers.' Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, 65 He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,

70 And the cord he made of deerskin.
Then he said to Hiawatha:
'Go, my son, into the forest,
Where the red deer herd together,
Kill for us a famous roebuck,
75 Kill for us a deer with antlers!'

Forth into the forest straightway
All alone walked Hiawatha
Proudly, with his bow and arrows;
And the birds sang round him, o'er
him,

80 'Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!'
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,
'Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!'

Up the oak-tree, close beside him, 85 Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed and chattered from the oak

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tree,

Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, 'Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!'

But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer;

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On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he.
Hidden in the alder-bushes,
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket, 105
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him, 110
Like the birch-leaf palpitated,

As the deer came down the pathway.
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;

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Scarce a twig moved with his motion, 115
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled;
But the wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!
Dead he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,
But the heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed and shouted and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward,
And Iagoo and Nokomis.
Hailed his coming with applauses.

From the red deer's hide Nokomis
Made a cloak for Hiawatha,
From the red deer's flesh Nokomis
Made a banquet in his honour.

Laughed, and said between his laugh- All the village came and feasted,

ing,

'Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!'

And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches,

All the guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge

taha!

Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-gotaysee!

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KILLED AT THE FORD.
[From Flower-de-Luce (1867)]

He is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honour, the tongue of
truth,

He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes
followed with one con-
sent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose
pleasant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, 10 To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song:

"Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of

JOHN

his sword.'

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And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
30 That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;

35 And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to crown,
And the neighbours wondered that she should die.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

He

OHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807 -1892), the 'Quaker Poet', was the son of a poor farmer in the neighbourhood of Haverhill, Mass., and, like Burns, did farm-work in his youth, but managed to obtain a fairly good education. early sent contributions to magazines, entered upon a journalistic career, and became editor of several political papers. He took an active part in politics and passionately engaged in the anti-slavery cause. In 1840 he retired to the seclusion of Amesbury, a village near his birthplace, which he made his home for the rest of his life. He died at Hampton Falls, N.H.

Whittier holds his place in literature as a very prolific and facile writer of lyrical and epic verse. His lyric poetry is full of didactic and descriptive elements, and is mainly concerned either with slavery (The Slave-Ships; Massachusetts to Virginia; Ichabod), religion (My Psalm; The Eternal Goodness; Our Master), or nature (Hampton Beach; A Dream of Summer). He proved himself a master of pastoral poetry in a number of exquisite lyrics, like Maud Muller (1854), The Barefoot Boy, Telling the Bees, My Playmate, and in the magnificent domestic idyl of Snow-Bound (1866), his greatest and most characteristic

work, which gives a graphic picture of his parental home and splendid descriptions of American winter scenery. His fine narrative gift is shown by a great many exquisite ballads on the early history or legendary lore of New England, such as Cassandra Southwick (1843), Skipper Ire

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son's Ride (1857), Mabel Martin (1857), Barbara Frietchie (1863), How the Women went from Dover (1883), and by a collection of verse-tales entitled The Tent on the Beach (1867). Whittier is often considered the most 'national' or 'representative' of America's poets.

TELLING THE BEES.

[From Home Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics (1860)]

Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;

You can see the gap in the old wall still,

And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;

And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.

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A

year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;

And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm

Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,

Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care

From my Sunday coat

I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
24 And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

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Since we parted, a month had passed,

To love, a year;

Down through the beeches I looked at last

On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

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