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All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and

the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied

longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to

her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured,

“ Father, I thank thee ! ”


STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away

from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers

are sleeping. Under the humble walls of the little Catholic

church-yard, In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and

unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside

them, Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at

rest and forever, Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer

are busy, Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have

ceased from their labors, Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have

completed their journey! Still stands the forest primeval; but under the

shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and

language. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty

Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from

exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.

In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are

still busy ; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their

kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's

story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced

neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the

wail of the forest.



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