Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,—­
Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, 555
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,—­
“Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!” 560
Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
Saw she, slowly advancing.  Alas! how changed was his aspect! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep
Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. 
But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, 565
Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gasperau’s mouth moved on that mournful procession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children 570
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean 575
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 
Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 580
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures, 585
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,—­
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. 
Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. 590

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth