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 --