Evangeline: a Tale of Acadie

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.