Perhaps thee 've heard before;)

That I can tell, and more.

 "Thee can believe she found him here, If thee do so incline. Folks have their fashions in belief— That may be one of thine. I 'm sure his name was Gabriel, And hers Evangeline." 

If thee do so incline.

That may be one of thine.

And hers Evangeline."

 She turned her to her common work And unpoetic ways, Nor knew the rare, sweet note she struck Resounding to your praise, O Poet of our common nights, And of our care-worn days! 

And unpoetic ways,

Resounding to your praise,

And of our care-worn days!

 Translator of our golden mood, And of our leaden hour! Immortal thus shall poet gauge The horizon of his power. Wear in your crown of laurel leaves, The little ivy flower! 

And of our leaden hour!

The horizon of his power.

The little ivy flower!

 And happy be the singer called To such a lofty lot! And ever blessed be the heart Hid in the simple spot Where Evangeline was loved and wept, And Longfellow forgot. 

To such a lofty lot!

Hid in the simple spot

And Longfellow forgot.

 O striving soul! strive quietly, Whate'er thou art or dost, Sweetest the strain, when in the song The singer has been lost; Truest the work, when 't is the deed, Not doer, counts for most! 

Whate'er thou art or dost,

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