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 --