tals,

And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh how often,

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In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!

The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

EVANGELINE

A TALE OF ACADIE

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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 deepvoiced 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 hunts

man? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,

Men whose lives glided on like rivers.

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that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth but re

flecting 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-Pré. 15 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.

Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side,

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.

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Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard.

There stood the broad-wheeled wains1 and the antique ploughs and the harrows;

There were the folds for the sheep; and

there, in his feathered seraglio, 75 Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock with the self-same Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village: in each one Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to

the odorous corn-loft.

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