THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, <br />Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, <br />Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, <br />Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. <br />Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean <br />Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. <br /> <br />This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it <br />Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? <br />Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,- <br />Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, <br />Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? <br />Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! <br />Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October <br />Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. <br />Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré. <br /> <br />Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, <br />Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, <br />List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; <br />List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/evangeline-preface/
