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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 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 woodland 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 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
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.