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As if to summon from his sleep the Warden

And Lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,

No drum-beat from the wall,
No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure,

Awaken with its call !


No more, surveying with an eye impartial

The long line of the coast,
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal

Be seen upon his post !
For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,

In sombre harness mailed,
Dreaded of men, and surnamed the Destroyer,

The rampart wall had scaled.
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,

The dark and silent room,
And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,

The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble,

But smote the Warden hoar;
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble

And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,

The sun rose bright o'erhead; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated

That a great man was dead.



This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines

and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct

in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their

bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neigh- 5

boring 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 woodland

the voice of the huntsman ? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Aca

dian farmers, – Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the 10

woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image

of heaven?

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for

ever departed ! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts

of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them

far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village 15

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

devotion, List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines

of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.


In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of 20


Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to

the eastward,

Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks

without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with

labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons 25

the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er

the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards

and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away

to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the

mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty 30

Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their

station descended. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian

village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and

of hemlock, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign

of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and 35

gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the


There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when

brightly the sunset Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on

the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in

kirtles Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the 40

golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles

within doors Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels

and the songs of the maidens.. Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and

the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended

to bless them. Reverend walked he among them; and up rose 45

matrons and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate

welcome. Then came the laborers home from the field, and

serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from

the belfry Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of

the village Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense 50


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