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 grave 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. THERE is a quiet Spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet Spirit, that doth fill As a bright image of the light and beauty That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds The heaven of April, with its changing light, 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 To have it round us,-and her silver voice Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. EVANGELINE. 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. THIS 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 neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 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 Grand-Pré. 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. I. 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 without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmer had raised with labour incessant, |