Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support
our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. 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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