Ended；　to　recommence　no　more　upon　earth；　uncomplaining；
  Thither；　as　leaves　to　the　light；　were　turned　her　thoughts　and　her　footsteps。
  As　from　a　mountain's　top　the　rainy　mists　of　the　morning
  Roll　away；　and　afar　we　behold　the　landscape　below　us；
  Sun…illumined；　with　shining　rivers　and　cities　and　hamlets；
  So　fell　the　mists　from　her　mind；　and　she　saw　the　world　far　below　her；
  Dark　no　longer；　but　all　illumined　with　love；　and　the　pathway
  Which　she　had　climbed　so　far；　lying　smooth　and　fair　in　the　distance。
  Gabriel　was　not　forgotten。　　Within　her　heart　was　his　image；
  Clothed　in　the　beauty　of　love　and　youth；　as　last　she　beheld　him；
  Only　more　beautiful　made　by　his　deathlike　silence　and　absence。
  Into　her　thoughts　of　him　time　entered　not；　for　it　was　not。
  Over　him　years　had　no　power；　he　was　not　changed；　but　transfigured；
  He　had　become　to　her　heart　as　one　who　is　dead；　and　not　absent；
  Patience　and　abnegation　of　self；　and　devotion　to　others；
  This　was　the　lesson　a　life　of　trial　and　sorrow　had　taught　her。
  So　was　her　love　diffused；　but；　like　to　some　odorous　spices；
  Suffered　no　waste　nor　loss；　though　filling　the　air　with　aroma。
  Other　hope　had　she　none；　nor　wish　in　life；　but　to　follow
  Meekly；　with　reverent　steps；　the　sacred　feet　of　her　Saviour。
  Thus　many　years　she　lived　as　a　Sister　of　Mercy；　frequenting
  Lonely　and　wretched　roofs　in　the　crowded　lanes　of　the　city；
  Where　distress　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　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　the　heart　of　the　city；　they　lie；　unknown　and　unnoticed。
  Daily　the　tides　of　life　go　ebbing　and　flowing　beside　them；
  Thousands　of　throbbing　hearts；　where　theirs　are　at　rest　and　forever；
  Thousands　of　aching　brains；　where　theirs　no　longer　are　busy；
  Thousands　of　toiling　hands；　where　theirs　have　ceased　from　their　labors；
  Thousands　of　weary　feet；　where　theirs　have　completed　their　journey！
  Still　stands　the　forest　primeval；　but　under　the　shade　of　its　branches
  Dwells　another　race；　with　other　customs　and　language。
  Only　along　the　shore　of　the　mournful　and　misty　Atlantic
  Linger　a　few　Acadian　peasants；　whose　fathers　from　exile
  Wandered　back　to　their　native　land　to　die　in　its　bosom。
  In　the　fisherman's　cot　the　wheel　and　the　loom　are　still　busy；
  Maidens　still　wear　their　Norman　caps　and　their　kirtles　of　homespun；
  And　by　the　evening　fire　repeat　Evangeline's　story。
  While　from　its　rocky　caverns　the　deep…voiced；　neighboring　ocean
  Speaks；　and　in　accents　disconsolate　answers　the　wail　of　the　forest。
  End