STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring ocean DEDICATION. As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, Hears round about him voices as it darkens, And seeing not the forms from which they come, Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens; So walking here in twilight, O my friends! I hear your voices, softened by the distance, If any thought of mine, or sung or told, Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown! That teaches me, when seeming most alone, Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. Kind messages, that pass from land to land; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand, One touch of fire,-and all the rest is mystery! The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces! |