The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward

      Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains

      Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic

      Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended

      There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.

      Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,

      Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.

      Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting

      Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.

      There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset

      Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,

      Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles

      Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden

      Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

      Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens,

      Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children

      Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.

      Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,

      Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.

      Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank

      Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry

      Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village

      Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,

      Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.

      Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers—

      Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from

      Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.

      Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;

      But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;

      There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.

       Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,

      Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,

      Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him, directing his household,

      Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.

      Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;

      Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;

      White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.

      Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

      Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,

      Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!

      Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.

      When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide

      Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden,

      Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret

      Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop

      Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

      Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,

      Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,

      Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,

      Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

      But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—

      Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,

      Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.

      When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

       Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer

      Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady

      Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.

      Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath

      Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.

      Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,

      Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,

      Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.

      Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown

      Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.

      Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,

      There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;

      There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,

      Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame

      Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

      Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one

      Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,

      Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.

      There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates

      Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes

      Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.

       Thus, at peace with God and the world, the СКАЧАТЬ