The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.

      In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway

      Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,

      Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.

      Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas

      Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,

      Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines.

       Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,

      Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,

      Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.

      Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero

      Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.

      Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing

      Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness

      That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.

      Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding

      Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded

      Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.

      Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle

      Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.

      Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,

      And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.

      Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden

      Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.

      Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward

      Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;

      When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.

      Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.

      There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer

      Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,

      Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.

      Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings

      Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,

      Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya,

      How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?"

      Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.

      Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,

      "Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,

      All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.

      Then the good Basil said—and his voice grew blithe as he said it—

      "Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.

      Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.

      Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit

      Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.

      Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,

      Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,

      He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,

      Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him

      Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.

      Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,

      Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.

      Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;

      He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.

      Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning

      We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison."

       Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,

      Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.

      Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,

      Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.

      Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.

      "Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"

      As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway

      Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man

      Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,

      Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,

      Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.

      Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith,

      All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;

      Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,

      And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his who would take them;

      Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.

      Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda,

      Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil

      Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.

       Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.

      All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,

      Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,

      Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.

      Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman

      Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.

      Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,

      Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:—

      "Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,

      Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!

      Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;

      Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.

      Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.

      All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows

      More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.

      Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;

      Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber

      With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.

      After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,

      No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,

      Burning