He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 
“Gabriel Lajeunesse!” they said; “yes! we have seen him. 
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers.” 
“Gabriel Lajeunesse!” said others; “O yes! we have seen him. 
He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.” 
Then would they say, “Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer? 
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal? 
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary’s son, who has loved thee
Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy! 
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine’s tresses.” 
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, “I cannot! 
Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. 
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.” 
Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,
Said, with a smile, “O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee! 
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. 
Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection! 
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 
Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!”
Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline labored and waited. 
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, “Despair not?”
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 
Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer’s footsteps;—­
Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;
But as a traveller follows a streamlet’s course through the valley: 
Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;
Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;
Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.

II