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 --