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Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the

church-yard." Such were the words of the priest. And there

in haste by the sea-side, 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 congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar

with the dirges. 'Twas 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 embarking ;

And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out

of the harbour, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and

the village in ruins.


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

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 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 church-yards. Long among them was seen a maiden who waited

and wandered,

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffer

ing 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, Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead

and abandoned, As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is

marked by Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach

in the sunshine. Something there was in her life incomplete, im

perfect, unfinished; As if a morning of June, with all its music and

sunshine, Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly


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