Evangeline

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-Pré.

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.

Of late I have been reading the poetry of Henry Longfellow, a renowned American poet of the nineteenth century, and for school I have also been reading Edmund Spenser's The Fairie Queene, as well as Milton's Paradise Lost. Although previously I was not much of one for poetry, after having read so much of it and having learned the mechanics of it, I have found that I've actually acquired a taste for classic poetry. This afternoon I finished reading Longfellow's poem Evangeline, and it was so good that I thought I ought to share it with the world.

First of all, I must advise you that it is written in free verse, i.e. without rhyme or meter. Although I have long contended that all respectable poetry has rhyme, I have since changed my view. Free verse is not any better or worse than other types of poetry, it's just a different style. Also, Evangeline is a lot longer than most poems you may have read, since it is narrative poetry, a poem that tells a story. Nevertheless, it is much less intimidating than the aforementioned poems by Spenser and Milton, the former of which takes up several books. Evangeline has only two parts, each part having five sections.

Rhyming and length aside, the poem itself is really outstanding. Longfellow graced it with amazing imagery and great narrative, and I must admit that I had no idea how the poem would end up until I came to the last part (I take this to be a sign that it was very well-written). Although I do not wish to tell much of the story for fear of spoiling it, I will mention that it concerns the French-speaking Acadians who once lived in what is now Nova Scotia, and who were driven from their homes in a mass exodus by the English. Many ended up in Louisiana, thus giving that part of the country its French heritage. The story begins with an Acadian girl named Evangeline becoming engaged to her lover Gabriel. Soon thereafter, however, they are separated in the exile, and although superficially the story may seem similar to Manzoni's The Betrothed, it contains a totally different series of events. I shall say no more, so that no more of the story may be given away than necessary.

In closing, I hope that my blogging may not be in vain, and that you will read Evangeline. You've already read the prologue, and the rest of it is really not that long. Plus, it's in the public domain, so you can read it for free online! I hope that you will do so, as it is an excellent tale and one which at its writing reminded many of the exile of the Acadians, which had nearly been forgotten.

The Errant Minstrel

Through the countryside I've trodden
Crossing every wood and dale,
Oft my weary feet are sodden
When a stream doth meet my trail.

Since my wand'rings brought me hither
And I sit here in your hall,
I shall now bring forth my zither,
And I pray you, hearken all.

I shall sing of times now past,
Of the puissant kings of yore.
Of their treasure great amass'd
Of their chivalry, and more.

May the tale I sing belike you,
Lords and ladies of this hall.
And if 'tis so, I pray you,
Please take notice of your thrall.

Poet's note: My sister has suggested that I lengthen this poem and add to it the minstrel's song. Do you think I ought to do this, or should I consider it finished?

The Hopeful Pilgrims

Onward we go in pursuit of the east,
Toiling along since the rain has now ceased.
Never before has there been such migration,
Not since the birth of this extensive nation.

On to the mountains, we tread rugged trails;
The sun shines upon us and clouds o’er us sail.
Though rivers and oceans before us do stand,
Someday, oh someday, we’ll come to our land.

The sun sets behind us as onward we tread,
A stone is our pillow, the earth is our bed.
This country’s ample for our humble needs,
Yet we seek a better, thus eastward we speed.

Tropical Paradise

Across the sea among the trees
There lies the bane of every freeze.
The summer sun, the balmy air,
Demise of winter season bear.

Here on this lovely island warm
There dwells of bees an ample swarm.
And I, my own skin for to save
Shall jump into the nearest wave.

Although I would for aye here dwell
I do not feel completely well.
Perhaps it is the ocean breeze,
For every now and then I sneeze.