The Vale of the Gaspereau

WOE fell on you, ye genial race
Ye exiled sons of lily France !
This is no more your dwelling-place,
Ye live in music and romance ;
But oft as purple even-tide
Bathes all these hills in fire and dew,
Some wanderer by the river side
Shall drop a tear and dream of you.

The Vale still rings with childhood's song,
Amid its yellowing sea of flowers,
While days of summer glide along
On wings of light through all your bowers.
Here are the trees ye planted, here
The remnants of your broken homes ;
But to old graves from year to year,
No ghostly mourner ever comes.