ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART
LIKE mists that round a mountain grayHang 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 dreamsMore beautiful in fancy seems;Yet if I to those scenes repairI find I am a stranger there.O thou belovëd Acadie,Sweet is thy charmëd world to me!Dull are these skies 'neath which I range,And all the summer hills are strange.Yet sometimes I discern thy gleamIn sparkles of the chiming stream;And sometimes speaks thy haunting loreThe foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore.And sometimes will mine eyes inclineTo 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 aflameTo deem I hear thee call my name,—To see thy face with gladness shine,And find the joy that once was mine.
LIKE mists that round a mountain grayHang 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 dreamsMore beautiful in fancy seems;Yet if I to those scenes repairI find I am a stranger there.O thou belovëd Acadie,Sweet is thy charmëd world to me!Dull are these skies 'neath which I range,And all the summer hills are strange.Yet sometimes I discern thy gleamIn sparkles of the chiming stream;And sometimes speaks thy haunting loreThe foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore.And sometimes will mine eyes inclineTo 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 aflameTo deem I hear thee call my name,—To see thy face with gladness shine,And find the joy that once was mine.
LIKE mists that round a mountain grayHang for an hour, then melt away,So I, and nearly all my race,Have vanished from my native place.
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 dreamsMore beautiful in fancy seems;Yet if I to those scenes repairI find I am a stranger there.
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 belovëd Acadie,Sweet is thy charmëd world to me!Dull are these skies 'neath which I range,And all the summer hills are strange.
O thou belovëd Acadie,
Sweet is thy charmëd world to me!
Dull are these skies 'neath which I range,
And all the summer hills are strange.
Yet sometimes I discern thy gleamIn sparkles of the chiming stream;And sometimes speaks thy haunting loreThe foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore.
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 inclineTo hill or wood that seems like thine;Or, if the robin pipeth clear,It is thy vernal note I hear.
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 aflameTo deem I hear thee call my name,—To see thy face with gladness shine,And find the joy that once was mine.
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.