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Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - 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 neighboring 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 forever 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 of
Grand-Pre. 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.
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