The exiles from Acadie landed some on one coast, some on another; and the lovers were separated from one another. Evangeline sought everywhere for Gabriel, in towns and in the country, in churchyards and on the prairies, in the camps and battlefields of the army, and among missions of Jesuits and Moravians. But all in vain. She heard far and distant news of him, but never came upon him. And so the years went by, and she grew old in her search. In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn, the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him. Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured; He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent. Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others-- This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm the oppressor; But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger-- Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. Thither, by night and day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.