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 --