Classic Poem

It is the hour of sunset, and the hills of Gaspereau
Lie half in purple shadow and half in crimson glow;
Day's deafening chorus ended, on the clear-echoing air
The college bell is ringing a special call to prayer.

The fitful, faltering music, as through a swaying door
Sweeps now across the Basin to distant Beau Sejour;
Then, weakening to a chorus of laughter, sobs and sighs,
Seems like a ghostly requiem sung by dead centuries.

Below the embowered village extends the wide Grand Pre,
A thousand emerald acres, where light and shadow play,
And there the gleaming water, and the masted ships that ride
Near Blomidon, grim guardsman of the gateway of the tide;

And fisher-people tying belated boats to shore,
And farmers plodding homeward, all weary and footsore,
And children calling cattle that from the dykes have strayed,
And great hay-wagons creeping from out the willows' shade.

But soon the darkness deepens and night's cold dews come down,
And then the Acadian farmers roam forth through field and town.
Again above the ramparts of bastioned Beau Sejour
The white flag of the Bourbons salutes the Cobequid shore,

And rude French fishing vessels drift outward to the Bay,
And peaceful homes encircle the meadows of Grand Pre.
Above the rustic cradle, to hush her baby's cry,
The fond Acadian mother sings sweet French lullaby,

And maidens with their lovers dance on the village green,
Amongst them stalwart Gabriel, and his Evangeline,
While from the open church door, as young at heart as they,
Nods saintly Pere Felician, and bids his flock be gay.

But now New England soldiers are camped by Basil's forge,
And o'er the town is waving the red cross of St. George,
And British swords are gleaming, and women are in flight,
And children's cries are rending the silence of the night.

At last fierce flames encircle the houses of Grand Pre,
And Winslow's vessels hurry upon the tide away,
While lurid shadows linger where red gleams fell aslant
The fruitful fields of Minas and the dykes of Habitant.

O pity for the sorrow that shrouds the Minas shore,
The bitter desolation of ancient Beau Sejour,
The weeping of the exiles across the moaning tide,
The Acadian farmer people, that in strange lands abide.

From Maine to California, bewildered groups, they stand,
With eyes turned ever eastward to the Acadian land,
Their plaintive songs reichoed by strange, unfeeling skies,
Like the old Mantuan shepherd's or Hebrew psalmist's cries.

O poor Acadian peasants, ye fell on troublous times,
When lust of large dominion filled all the world with crimes,
When Holy Church gave sanction to most unholy strife
And the Galilean's gospel was not the law of life.

Now, wrongs like those ye suffered, thank Heaven, have ceased to be,
Since church and state know better Christ's law of charity,
Now men repose in safety by labour's peaceful forge,
'Neath the white flag of the Bourbons and the red cross of St. George; —
Yet earth has misconceptions and cruelties today
As great as caused your downfall, ye peasants of Grand Pre,

The lust of power is rampant, the love of gold is strong,
Some use in selfish pleasure what others gained by wrong,
The young too soon bear burdens, the aged toil too late,
Hearts made for trust and pity are driven to fear and hate.

Slow comes the reign of knowledge, slow dawns the perfect light;
But from a thousand hill-tops we look into the night
And see earth's wide horizon in many spots aglow,
And spite of present darkness and present pain we know
That some day false ambition shall turn to purpose strong,
And be he counted conqueror who lives to conquer wrong.