1742 Like mists that round a mountain gray Have vanished from my native place. Each haunt of boyhood's loves and dreams 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, Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam And sometimes will mine eyes incline It is thy vernal note I hear. And oft my heart will leap aflame, 5 |