Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring oceanSpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath itLeaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of OctoberSeize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
Words in this poem
- hoar v. t.
- To become moldy or musty. [AS. harian to grow gray.]
- disconsolate n.
- Disconsolateness. Barrow.
- huntsman n.
- One who hunts, or who practices hunting.
- acadian a.
- Of or pertaining to Acadie, or Nova Scotia.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is in the public domain. This text is taken from Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie, Project Gutenberg ebook #2039; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in Evangeline (1847), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #2039, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/longfellow-evangeline/henry-wadsworth-longfellow.html, id L04219.
Form and metre
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is 19 lines in 3 verse paragraphs. It is unrhymed, as far as the pronouncing dictionary can tell. 68% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 16.1 syllables. 15 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 16% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, | 17 | ···/˘˘/˘·/˘˘···/· |
| Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, | 16 | /˘····/˘·˘˘/··/· |
| Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, | 14 | ··/˘···/˘··˘/˘ |
| Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. | 13 | ··/˘·······/˘ |
| Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean | 16 | ···/˘/˘···˘/˘˘/˘ |
| Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. | 17 | ···/˘˘/˘˘/˘····/˘ |
| This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it | 17 | ···/˘˘/˘········· |
| Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? | 17 | ·········/·····/˘ |
| Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,-- | 17 | ·····˘/˘···˘/˘˘/˘ |
| Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, | 15 | ···/˘··/˘·/˘·/˘ |
| Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? | 17 | /˘·/····˘/˘·/˘·/˘ |
| Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! | 16 | ···/˘···/˘˘/˘˘/˘ |
| Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October | 16 | /˘˘······/˘··˘/˘ |
| Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. | 16 | ·····˘/·/˘····/˘ |
| Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré. | 17 | ··˘/˘˘/··/˘˘/˘··· |
| Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, | 17 | ··˘/·˘/˘···˘/··/˘ |
| Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, | 16 | ··˘/··/˘···/˘˘/˘ |
| List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; | 17 | ···/˘˘/˘·······/˘ |
| List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. | 15 | ·············/˘ |
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