“And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.” • • • • • • • • “Life had been long astir in the village, and clamorous labor Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.” • • • • • • • • “Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the chamber. In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed, and the voice of the neighboring thunder Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created.” • • • • • • • • “Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.” • • • • • • • • “Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere; For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.” • • • • • • • • “Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.” • • • • • • • • “Bright rose the sun the next day; and all the flowers of the garden Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.” The pathos of Evangeline it is impossible to develop in our limited space. The chief beauty of the poem is its unity of interest and feeling. The reader soon comes to admire the unaccustomed movement of the verse, and he is carried onward with its majestic sweep to the conclusion, without any faltering of attention. We end our notice with a portion of the concluding lines, which fitly close the sweet and mournful story of the lovers: “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.”