Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of

cattle

Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs inter

rupted.

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping

encampments

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Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Ne

braska,

When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.

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Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden

Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;

And as they turned at length to speak to their silent com

panion,

Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore

Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had de

parted.

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Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.

Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;

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And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.

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Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing

upon her,

Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the land

scape,

Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,

And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering

senses.

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Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,

Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."

Such. were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,

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Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand

Pré.

And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of

sorrow,

Lo! with a mournful sound like the voice of a vast con

gregation,

Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the

dirges.

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'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the

ocean,

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying

landward.

Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of em

barking;

And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the

harbor,

Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.

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PART THE SECOND.

I.

MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré,

When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, Exile without an end, and without an example in story. Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed; Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast

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Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.

Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to

city,

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern

savannas,

From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters

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Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the

ocean,

Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.

Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,

Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.

Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the

churchyards.

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Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wan

dered,

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all

things.

Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended, Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its

pathway

Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,

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Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and aban

doned,

As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by Samp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.

Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;

As if a morning of June, with all its music and sun

shine,

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Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,

She would commence again her endless search and en

deavor;

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Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,

Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in

its bosom

He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.

Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her for

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ward. Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,

But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. “Gabriel Lajeunesse!" they said; "Oh, yes! we have seen him.

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;

Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and trap

pers."

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"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "Oh, yes! we have seen him.

He is a voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana."

Then would they say, "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as

loyal?

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Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved

thee

Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be

happy!

Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."