Like mists that round a mountain gray
Hang for an hour, then melt away,
So I and nearly all my race
Have vanished from my native place.
Each haunt of boyhood's loves and dreams
More beautiful in fancy seems;
Yet if I to those scenes repair,
I find I am a stranger there.
O thou beloved Acadie!
How, whensoe'er I think of thee,
Dull grow these skies 'neath which I range,
While all the summer hills are strange.
Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam
In sparkles of the chiming stream;
And sometimes speaks thy haunting lore
The foam-wreathed Sibyl of the Shore.
And sometimes will mine eyes incline
To hill or wood that seems like thine;
Or, if the robin pipeth clear,
It is thy vernal note I hear.
And oft my heart will leap aflame,
To deem I hear thee call my name,-
To see thy face with gladness shine,
And find the joy that once was mine.