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

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      Solemnly, mournfully,

       Dealing its dole,

      The Curfew Bell

       Is beginning to toll.

      Cover the embers,

       And put out the light;

      Toil comes with the morning,

       And rest with the night.

      Dark grow the windows,

       And quenched is the fire;

      Sound fades into silence—

       All footsteps retire.

      No voice in the chambers,

       No sound in the hall!

      Sleep and oblivion

       Reign over all!

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      The book is completed,

       And closed, like the day;

      And the hand that has written it

       Lays it away.

      Dim grow its fancies;

       Forgotten they lie;

      Like coals in the ashes,

       They darken and die.

      Song sinks into silence,

       The story is told,

      The windows are darkened,

       The hearth-stone is cold.

      Darker and darker

       The black shadows fall;

      Sleep and oblivion

       Reign over all.

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       Table of Contents

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      This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

      Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

      Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

      Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

      Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

      Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

       This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

      Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman

      Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers—

      Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,

      Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

      Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!

      Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

      Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean

      Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

       Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,

      Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,

      List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

      List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

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      In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,

      Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre

      Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,

      Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.

      Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,

      Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates

      Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.

      West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields

      Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward

      Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains

      Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic

      Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended

      There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.

      Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,

      Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.

      Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting

      Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.

      There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset

      Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,

      Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles

      Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden

      Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

      Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens,

      Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children

      Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.

      Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,

      Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.

      Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank

      Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry

      Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village

      Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,

      Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.

      Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers—

      Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from

      Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.

      Neither

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