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Came winding down beside the wave,
They sang, that by his native bowers
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
They buried the dark chief-they freed Beside the
his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose,--and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
And this is the sweet Spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in Nature, -of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us,-and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
A Tale of Acadie.
IN 1713, Acadia, or, as it is now named, Nova Scotia, was ceded to Great Britain by the French. Some time after, war having again broken out between the French and British in Canada, the Acadians were accused of having assisted the French, and the British Government ordered them to be removed from their homes, and dispersed throughout the other colonies, at a distance from their much-loved land. The poem is descriptive of the fate of some of the persons involved in these calamitous proceedings.
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 neighbour
ing ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of
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, Men whose lives glided 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 for ever
departed, Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts
of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far
over the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of
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.
PART THE FIRST.
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of
Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to
the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks with
out number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmer had raised with