LITMIR.BIZ

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and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,

      Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.

      Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated

      Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,

      High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.

      Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs

      Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,

      Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.

       Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,

      Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,

      Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.

      And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,

      Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,

      So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,

      Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence.

      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.

      Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;

      Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket

      Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo

      Softly the words of the Lord:—"The poor ye always have with you."

      Thither, by night and by 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 splendor,

      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 erelong their spirits would enter.

       Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,

      Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.

      Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden;

      And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,

      That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.

      Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind,

      Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,

      While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted

      Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.

      Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;

      Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended";

      And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.

      Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,

      Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence

      Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces,

      Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.

      Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,

      Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence

      Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.

      And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,

      Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

      Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time;

      Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.

       Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,

      Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder

      Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,

      And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.

      Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,

      That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.

      On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.

      Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;

      But, as he lay in the in morning light, his face for a moment

      Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;

      So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.

      Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,

      As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,

      That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.

      Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted

      Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,

      Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.

      Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,

      Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded

      Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,

      "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

      Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;

      Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

      Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

      As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

      Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,

      Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.

      Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

      Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.

      Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,

      Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

      Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,

      As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.

       All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,

      All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,

      All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

      And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,

      Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"

      ——————

      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 churchyard,

      In

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