SECTION V. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
This section of Longfellow's *Evangeline* depicts the brutal removal of the Acadian people from their village of Grand-Pré by British soldiers.
The poem
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 525 Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. 530 Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; 535 All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 540 Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. 545 Foremost the young men came; and raising together their voices, Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:-- "Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain! Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!" Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside 550 Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 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 in his parish, 595 Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, 600 E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. _Benedicite!_ murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 605 More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them 610 Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, 615 Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. 620 Then, as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 625 "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!" Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farmyards, Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments 630 Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Nebraska, When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. 635 Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them; And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 640 Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. Then in a swoon she sank and lay with her head on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber; And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 645 Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape. Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 650 Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,-- "Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, 655 Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre. And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, Lo! with a mournful sound like the voice of a vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 660 'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. 665
This section of Longfellow's *Evangeline* depicts the brutal removal of the Acadian people from their village of Grand-Pré by British soldiers. Families are ripped apart, homes are set ablaze, and Evangeline witnesses her father die on the beach before the ships take the survivors away into exile. This moment serves as the emotional high point of the poem's first half, as everything Evangeline cherishes is taken from her in just one night. By the end, the village lies in ruins, her father is buried in the sand, and she embarks on a journey into an uncertain future.
Line-by-line
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day / Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, / Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach / Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, / Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, / Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. / Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures, / Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders
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.
Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red / Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven,
Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden / Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,-- / "Let us bury him here by the sea."
Tone & mood
The tone remains mournful and serious throughout — this is a lament rather than a protest. Longfellow maintains a calm and dignified voice, which makes the horror feel more impactful than if it were merely outraged. There are scenes of true tenderness (like Evangeline holding Gabriel's hands and the cows waiting at the gate) alongside moments of striking terror (the village ablaze like a false dawn), yet the prevailing mood is sorrow kept at an honorable distance. The classical epic meter — dactylic hexameter — lends the entire section a slow, processional gravity, similar to the beat of a funeral drum.
Symbols & metaphors
- The burning village — Grand-Pré in flames vividly represents the destruction of a whole way of life. Longfellow likens it to a rising moon and then to Judgment Day — it's both stunning and catastrophic, a false dawn that signifies the end of a world rather than the start of a new one.
- The waiting cattle — The sight of cows coming back to an empty farmyard at dusk stands out as one of the poem's most poignant images of loss. They symbolize the everyday rhythms of life that go on unaffected after human tragedy — and without the milkmaid, the community's disappearance feels complete and permanent.
- The clock without hands — Evangeline's father is likened to a clock with its hands taken off. He is alive, yet time has come to a standstill for him — the shock of displacement has left him empty inside. This comparison captures a specific type of grief that transcends mere emotion and sinks into numbness.
- The driftwood fires — The exiles create their beach fires using timber recovered from old shipwrecks. This detail subtly links the Acadians to the wreckage—they're warming themselves on the remnants of past tragedies, becoming part of a long history of loss at sea.
- The returning tide — The tide pulls back amid the chaos of embarkation and comes back at dawn, right as the burial service concludes. Longfellow portrays it as a vast congregation responding to the priest — nature itself joins in mourning, and the sea that carries the Acadians away also lays their dead to rest.
- The pilgrim hymn — The Acadian men singing a Catholic hymn while marching from the church to the ships transforms forced deportation into a form of spiritual pilgrimage. It acknowledges the injustice without dismissing it, emphasizing the dignity and faith of those who are enduring the experience.
Historical context
The Expulsion of the Acadians — or *Le Grand Dérangement* in French — happened in 1755 when British authorities forcibly removed around 10,000 French-speaking Catholic settlers from Acadia (now Nova Scotia). Families were torn apart, farms were set ablaze, and communities that had thrived for over a century were wiped out. Longfellow released *Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie* in 1847, almost a hundred years later, inspired by a story he learned from Nathaniel Hawthorne. This poem was the first significant English-language work to introduce the Acadian tragedy to a broad audience and played a vital role in shaping how Americans and Canadians perceived the event. Section V details the night of deportation — the emotional peak of the poem's first book — where Longfellow's grand aspirations collide with profound human sorrow.
FAQ
This section describes the forced deportation of the Acadian people from Grand-Pré, Nova Scotia, in 1755 by British colonial soldiers. The Acadians were French-speaking Catholics who had farmed the land for generations. The British gathered the men and held them in the church, then forcibly loaded the entire community onto ships, scattering them across the Atlantic colonies. This brutal process separated families and resulted in the burning of the village they left behind.
Evangeline Bellefontaine is the main character in Longfellow's epic poem. She is a young Acadian woman who gets separated from her fiancé Gabriel during the deportation night. The poem chronicles her long journey over decades as she searches for him throughout North America. In this part of the poem, she serves as the human perspective that allows us to understand the collective tragedy — her individual losses (Gabriel taken away on another ship, her father's death on the beach) represent the suffering of an entire community.
Longfellow doesn't specify a physical cause for the father's collapse—he simply dies while witnessing the village burn. The poem has already depicted him as hollowed out by the deportation, with a face "like a clock from which the hands have been taken." This suggests that the loss of his home and community ultimately leads to his death: it’s grief and shock that take him, not illness. This is a death by dispossession.
When the priest gazes at Evangeline's father in the flickering firelight, he notices a face that appears "haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion" — Longfellow likens it to a clock stripped of its hands. A clock without hands may still exist and possess its inner workings, but it can no longer keep time or serve its purpose. The old man remains physically there, yet the essence of who he was — what defined him as *him* — has already departed.
The scene of animals returning to an empty farmyard is one of Longfellow's most powerful moments. The cows return at dusk, oblivious to the destruction of their community, waiting for the milkmaid who will never arrive. This emphasizes the total and permanent absence of people in a way that simply stating their loss wouldn't convey. While the ordinary world continues on, the human world has been wiped away.
Dactylic hexameter is the meter used in Homer's *Iliad* and *Odyssey* as well as in Virgil's *Aeneid*—the classic meter of epic poetry. Each line consists of six metrical feet, with the primary foot being a dactyl (one stressed syllable followed by two unstressed ones). Longfellow chose this meter intentionally to bestow upon the Acadian story the same weight and dignity as the major epics of Western literature, indicating that it was not just a minor regional tragedy, but an event deserving of the highest poetic form.
The reference is to the Acts of the Apostles, where the Apostle Paul is shipwrecked on the island of Melita (Malta) and ministers to the locals. By likening the Acadian priest to Paul, Longfellow presents the priest's efforts among the exiles on the beach as a kind of apostolic ministry—caring for those who are spiritually and physically broken. This comparison subtly positions the Acadians' suffering within a context of biblical significance and honor.
The sea plays multiple roles in the final movement. It withdraws amidst the chaos of embarkation, leaving boats stranded and blocking escape routes. At dawn, it returns just as the priest wraps up the burial service, with Longfellow portraying its roar as if it responds to the prayers "like the voice of a vast congregation." The sea is both a means of exile (as the ships depart on the tide) and a mourner at the funeral. It carries the living away while also witnessing the burial of the dead.