(no subject)

EVANGELINE LAJEUNESSE 

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 forever departed!
  Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
  Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
  Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.