All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, “ Father. I thank

thee !"

STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for

ever, Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their

labours, Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their


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 loon are still busy; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of

homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

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Πότνια, πότνια νυξ,

πνοδότειρα των πολυπόνων βροτών, 'Ερεσόθιν 79' μόλε μόλι κατάπτερο 'Αγαμιανόνιον επί δόμον υπό γαρ αλγίων, υπό τη συμφοράς διουχόμεθ, δίχόμεθα.


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PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,

And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go;

Or where the denser grove receives

No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves

The shadows hardly move.

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Beneath some patriarchal tree

I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves orer me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound,

A slumberous sound, -a sound that brings

The feelings of a dream, -
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,

Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,

Like ships upon the sea ;

Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age,

And chronicles of Eld.

And, loving still these quaint old themes,

Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams,

The holy land of song

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings

The Spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide

The green trees whispered low and mild;

It was a sound of joy !
They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild;
Still they looked at me and smiled,

As if I were a boy ;

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