SECTION IV. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
This part of Longfellow's *Evangeline* begins with a cheerful betrothal feast in the Acadian village of Grand-Pré, only to have that joy crushed when British soldiers force the men into the church and declare that the whole community is being removed from their homeland.
The poem
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 been long astir in the village, and clamorous labor 385 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, 390 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 Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 395 Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant: For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father. 400 Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated; 405 There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider press and the bee-hives, Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler 410 Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, _Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres_, and _Le Carillon de Dunkerque_, And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 415 Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. Fairest of all maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith! So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous 420 Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them 425 Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,-- Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, 430 Holding aloft in his hands, with the seals, the royal commission. "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders. Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 435 Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch: Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! 440 Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's pleasure!" As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and shatters his windows, Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, 445 Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. 450 Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,-- 455 "Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance! Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!" More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 460 Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful 465 Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. "What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you? Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another! Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? 470 Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? Lo! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you! See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion! 475 Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!' Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'" Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, 480 While they repeated his prayer and said, "O Father, forgive them!" Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar; Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated, 485 Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, 490 Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild flowers; There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy; 495 And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer. Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,-- 500 Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience! Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. 505 Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows 510 Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion "Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted. 515 Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder 520 Told her that God was in heaven and governed the world He created! Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven; Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
This part of Longfellow's *Evangeline* begins with a cheerful betrothal feast in the Acadian village of Grand-Pré, only to have that joy crushed when British soldiers force the men into the church and declare that the whole community is being removed from their homeland. Evangeline spends the night alone in her vacant house, with her father and fiancé Gabriel gone, until a thunderstorm reminds her that God still watches over the world, allowing her to find some peace and sleep.
Line-by-line
Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. / Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets, / Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, / Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances / Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous / Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, / Holding aloft in his hands, with the seals, the royal commission.
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, / Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, / As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician / Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar; / Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides / Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, / And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--
Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. / All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. / Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted.
Tone & mood
The tone follows a careful progression: it starts warm and celebratory, shifts abruptly to grave and anguished at the deportation order, and ends on a quietly sorrowful note. Longfellow employs a dignified hexameter that maintains a sense of control even during the most intense moments, which enhances the emotional weight, preventing the poem from slipping into melodrama. Throughout, there’s a profound sympathy for the Acadians, coupled with a restrained yet unmistakable moral outrage toward colonial power, all while expressing a sincere respect for faith and the strength of community.
Symbols & metaphors
- The feast / betrothal table — The spread table — loaf, honey, ale, cheese — captures the essence of Acadian domestic life. When Evangeline comes back to find it untouched, that same table transforms into a symbol of all that has been lost: family, future, and home.
- The church — The soldiers violate a sacred space. The altar, which should be a place for a priest to speak of grace, is turned into a platform for a colonial decree. This act of desecration symbolizes the larger destruction of the community's spiritual and civic life.
- The storm — The hailstorm simile conveys the abrupt and detached brutality of the deportation order. The night storm at the end reflects Evangeline's inner turmoil while also, through the thunder, hinting at a higher divine order — a blend of grief and faith intertwined.
- Michael's fiddle and the dance — The fiddler and the whirling dancers embody the vibrant culture of the Acadians—their joy, their community ties, their identity. When the drum beats stop, that music fades away, and the culture it represents risks being lost.
- The orchard stripped of golden fruit — The stripped orchard, presented as a seasonal detail, subtly foreshadows the loss of the Acadians' land, harvest, and livelihood at the hands of the British crown.
- The setting sun — The sun sets during the second half of the section, casting long shadows and a warm golden light that is beautiful yet fading. This signifies the end of the Acadians' way of life just as much as it signals the end of the day.
Historical context
This section is from *Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie* (1847), a narrative poem by Longfellow that tells the story of the Great Expulsion of 1755. During this event, British colonial authorities forcibly removed about 10,000 French-speaking Acadian settlers from what is now Nova Scotia, Canada. These Acadians had lived in the area for over a hundred years and mostly tried to stay neutral in the conflicts between Britain and France. Section IV captures the moment when the expulsion order is announced, which happened in a church in Grand-Pré on September 5, 1755. Longfellow was inspired to write the poem after hearing the tale from Nathaniel Hawthorne, who learned it from a clergyman in Nova Scotia. The poem gained immense popularity in the United States and influenced how generations of English-speaking North Americans understood and mourned the Acadian tragedy.
FAQ
The Great Expulsion (Le Grand Dérangement) refers to the forced removal of Acadian settlers by British authorities from 1755 to 1764. Approximately 10,000 individuals were displaced from their homes in present-day Nova Scotia and spread across the Atlantic world. Longfellow based his entire poem on this event, featuring the fictional characters Evangeline and Gabriel to personalize a historical tragedy that had mostly faded from English-language awareness.
It’s a purposeful structural choice. The more he vividly illustrates the happiness—through the dancing, the fiddler, the betrothal, and the sense of community—the more heartbreaking the loss becomes when the soldiers show up. The reader needs to experience what is being taken away, rather than simply being told about it.
Not exactly. Felician isn't claiming that the deportation is justified or that the Acadians shouldn't mourn. Instead, he's urging them not to let anger take over in that moment, as violence against armed soldiers inside a church would only result in more deaths. His call for forgiveness serves as both a spiritual and a protective act. Longfellow clearly respects this, although contemporary readers might understandably find it complex.
Longfellow composed *Evangeline* in dactylic hexameter, the same meter found in Homer's *Iliad* and *Odyssey* and Virgil's *Aeneid*. Each line contains six metrical feet, predominantly dactyls (one stressed syllable followed by two unstressed ones). This structure creates a flowing, wave-like rhythm that feels both grand and timeless, achieving the effect Longfellow aimed for in crafting an American epic.
Basil is Gabriel's father and embodies the poem's political anger. His outburst — *Down with the tyrants of England!* — stands out as the only instance of open defiance in this section, and it gets swiftly shut down. He serves as a foil to Father Felician: while Felician advocates for spiritual endurance, Basil symbolizes the urge to resist. Longfellow grants both men dignity but stops short of fully endorsing either approach.
When Evangeline calls for Gabriel but hears nothing, Longfellow notes that there’s no response *from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living*. The church where the men are held is likened to a grave, and it's described as *gloomier* than a real grave because the men are alive yet confined, with their fate uncertain. This creates one of the poem's darkest and most striking images.
No. Evangeline Bellefontaine is a character invented by Longfellow, although she was inspired by a tale he learned (via Hawthorne) about an actual Acadian woman who was torn from her lover during the expulsion. The historical Acadians were indeed real, and the poem's events reflect accurate historical context, but Evangeline is a literary figure meant to represent the pain experienced by her entire community.
She had recalled *the story she once heard about the justice of Heaven*. The storm doesn’t frighten her; instead, it reminds her that God is involved in the world — that there is a moral order even when human events appear chaotic and cruel. It’s a delicate comfort, but it’s enough to help her sleep. Longfellow avoids making it feel like simple reassurance; the fire is still smoldering and the supper remains untouched.