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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

church-yard,

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,

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Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

Wandered back to their native land to die in its

bosom.

In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom 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.