FAED'S EVANGELINE.
"Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him."
—Longfellow.
Evangeline, sad-eyed with longing pain,
With silent lips that now have ceased to grieve,
Tender and firm and patient to achieve,—
Thy love is true whether his form has lain
Where never thy fond arms may find again;
Or feels thy faith inspire him to believe
That ways may open that shall long deceive;—
Oh, calm of courage never to attain!
Sweet, sorrowing, mute, unplaining maidenhood,
Thou art the poem of that deathless fate
Still told in every year of rustling hay
That greens the meadows, where thy feet have stood.
When tides come early, or are lingering late,
Forever will thy face be o'er Grand-Pré.
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