Thus was the evening passed.  Anon the bell from the belfry
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step
Lingered long in Evangeline’s heart, and filled it with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 
Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 
This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. 
Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber! 
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. 
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
Passed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 
And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!

IV

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. 
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. 
Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors