|line||Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,|
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,
|60||Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,|
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snowflakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.
|65||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
|70||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,
|75||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,
|80||Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.|
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.