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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
STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
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.
Πότνια, πότνια νυξ,
πνοδότειρα των πολυπόνων βροτών, 'Ερεσόθιν 79' μόλε μόλι κατάπτερο 'Αγαμιανόνιον επί δόμον υπό γαρ αλγίων, υπό τη συμφοράς διουχόμεθ, δίχόμεθα.
VOICES OF THE NIGHT.
PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
Alternate come and go;
Or where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
With one continuous sound,
A slumberous sound, -a sound that brings
The feelings of a dream, -
O'er meadow, lake, and stream.
And dreams of that which cannot die,
Bright visions, came to me,
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 !
As if I were a boy ;