This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks1，
Bearded with moss2， and in garments green， indistinct in the twilight3，
Stand like Druids of old， with voices sad and prophetic，
Stand like harpers hoar， with beards that rest on their bosoms4.
Loud from its rocky caverns5， the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks， and in accents disconsolate6 answers the wail7 of the forest.
This is the forest primeval； but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe8， when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman？
Where is the thatch-roofed village， the home of Acadian farmers，
Men whose lives glided9 on like rivers that water the woodlands，
Darkened by shadows of earth， but reflecting an image of heaven？
Waste are those pleasant farms， and the farmers forever departed！
Scattered10 like dust and leaves， when the mighty11 blasts of October
Seize them， and whirl them aloft， and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
Naught12 but tradition remains13 of the beautiful village of Grand-Pr。
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.
