Still through Egypt's desert places
Flows the lordly Nile,
From its banks the great stone faces
Gaze with patient smile.
THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
I know a maiden fair to see,
She can both false and friendly be,
Viswamitra the Magician,
By his spells and incantations,
Up to Indra's realms elysian
Raised Trisanku, king of nations.
Ye voices, that arose
After the Evening's close,
And whispered to my restless heart repose!
Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery,
A love eternal in a moment's space conceived;
There was a time when I was very small,
When my whole frame was but an ell in height;
Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall,