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THIS 18 the forest primeval. The mirmuring
pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indis
tinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and
prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that resi on
their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced
neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate- answers the
wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the
hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the wood
land the voice of the huntsman ? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of
Acadian farmers, Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water
the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an
image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers
forever departed ! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty
blasts of October Beize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle
them far o'er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful vil.
lage of Grand-Pré.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and
endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of
woman's deyotion, List to the micurnful tradition still sung by the
pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of tho