  QUEBEC, the grey old city on the hill, Lies with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair—so still— Of other days and all her mighty dead. The white doves perch upon the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim Above the battlefield so grim and wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride, of tenderness—her stirring past— The strife, the valor, of the long ago Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast, She lies, touched with the sunsets golden grace, A wondrous softness on her grey old face. [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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