ACADIA

     Yes, there’s a feeling, that, from pole to pole,
To one dear spot still fondly links the soul.
Exiled from Home Foscari pined and died,
And as the Hebrew, by Euphrates’ side,

     Pearl of the West—since first my soul awoke
And on my eyes thy sylvan beauties broke,
Since the warm current of my youthful blood

     What though the Northern winds that o’er thee blow

     The Mayflower buds in simple beauty bring
Home to the heart the first glad thoughts of Spring;

     So blooms our country—and in ages past,

     But let us pause, nor deem the labor vain,
O’er scenes which never can return again.
From shore to shore see stately woods extend,
And to the wave their verdant shadows lend;

     While o’er the fallen tenant of the wild
A moment stands the forest’s dusky child,

     Thus, as the am’rous Moor with joy survey’d
The budding beauties of Venetia’ s maid,
Drank in the beamings of her love-lit eye,

     With practised skill he soon divides his prey,
Then to his home pursues his devious way

     The Camp extends along the pebbly shore,
A sylvan city, rude as those of yore,
By Patriarch hands within the desert built,
When fresh from Eden’s joys and Eden’s guilt.

     Some slender poles, with tops together bound,
And butts inserted firmly in the ground,

     As to the West the glorious Sun retires,

     Crossing his legs upon a mossy seat,
With maple wand a youth begins to beat

     When first the Micmac’s eye discerned the sail
Expanding to the gentle southern gale,
He started wildly up the mountain side,
And look’d with doubting gaze along the tide,

     Thus, while Acadia’s charms my eye surveys,
My soul, unbidden, turns to other days,
When the stout-hearted rear’d amidst the wood
Their sylvan Homes, and by their thresholds stood

     They felled the forest trees with sturdy stroke,

     As cautiously the miser locks his store,
The anxious parent barricades the door,
Then, having cleansed the balsam from his palm,

     Their supper o’er, the grace with fervor said,
Another log upon the fire is laid,
And, as the blaze its cheering light bestows,

     Then, half forgetful of their present lot,

     The scene is changed—upon a verdant seat,
A glassy streamlet smiling at their feet,
Fast by a crumbling castle, where decay
With silent tooth gnaws stone by stone away,

     And then on Albion’s distant shore they stand,
And feel the parting grasp of many a hand,

     For them no stately canopy is spread:
Dried fern and withered leaves compose their bed —
Rough couch—but still their waning strength it cheers,
For Labour sweetens it, and Love endears.

     Why starts the mother from that soft repose?
What means the horror that her looks disclose?
Why are her children clasped with eager care,
While Hope seems wildly struggling with Despair?

     From the wild covert of the forest shade,
By stealthy march their slow approach was made,
Now, by the spreading foliage concealed,

     When sleep had closed the weary cottar’ s eyes,
They sought to take the slumberers by surprise —
Essay’d the door, and then the window tried
With gentle pressure, studiously applied,

     Nor does the boy escape—the smouldering fire

     Now plunder follows death—then one applies

     Such are the scenes Acadia once display’d;
Such was the price our gallant Fathers paid
For this fair land, where now our footsteps rove

     While in her backward flight, the Muse essays
To paint the gloomy scenes of darker days,

     In vain he strove—in vain his thunder peal’d

     O’er gallant d’Anville’s fate the Muse might bend,
And freshening tints to fading memory lend —
Might paint the fleet, as o’er the western waves
It bore the warriors to ignoble graves,

     For, ere a moment rests her wearied wing,
E’en sadder scenes across her spirit fling

     Methinks as on the sorrowing Exiles move,
I see their pathway strewed by those they love,
Mark the pale cheek, the swoll’n and streaming eye,
And hear the bursting sob and thrilling cry;

     Methinks I hear the solemn hymn they sung,
To calm the cries that through the welkin rung,
To raise their thoughts to Him whose willing ear

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     But when the flowers shall o’er his ashes spring
Who now his country’s charms essays to sing;
When on the sod that decks his lowly rest

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     Who has not marked with an admiring eye,

     With equal pride a numerous race she rears,

     But has not time—that drowned the din of arms,
Defaced Acadia’s wild and simple charms,

     Such sweet Lochaber, Sydney’s sylvan pride,
Lake of the woods, the forest’s gentle bride —

     Such is the scene, beneath Canaan’s height,
Where Nature seems to shrink from human sight;
And shun the intruding step, and curious eye,

     ’Tis evening, and the sun’s retiring ray
From rock and hill is fading fast away;
Yet, like a friend who parts but for a while,

     But see, yon little cloud, slow rising o’er
The horizon’s edge, is spreading more and more;
Though but a speck, when first it met the eye,
’Tis stealing fast o’er all the bright blue sky,

     Lull’d on the lap of luxury and ease,
With cheeks unfann’d but by the mildest breeze,

     Inured to toil, familiar with the storm,
Around our coast these hardy boatmen swarm,
With nerves well strung to battle with the wave,

     With anxious brow that ill her care conceals,

     Oh! Love, in stately dome, or princely bower,
Man owns thy holy soul-subduing power,
Feels that the sweetest charm his spirit knows

     Their humble meal the mother now prepares,
O’er which they soon forget their former cares;
The children’s prattle crowns the parents’ joy,

     For, though Acadia’s sons may stray at times
To lands more fruitful, and to milder climes,