  The fitful rustle of thy sea-green leaves Tells of the homeward tide, and free-blown air Upturns thy gleaming leafage like a share,— A silvery foam thy bosom, as it heaves! O peasant tree, the regal Bay doth bare Its throbbing breast to ebbs and floods—and grieves! O slender fronds, pale as a moonbeam weaves, Joy woke your strain that trembles to despair! Willow of Normandy, say, do the birds Of Motherland plain in thy sea-chant low, Or voice of those who brought thee in the ships To tidal vales of Acadie?—Vain words! Grief unassuaged makes moan that Gaspereau Bore on its flood the fleet with iron lips! |
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