QUEBEC.

Quebec, the gray 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 her beloved dead.

The doves are nesting in the cannons grim,

The flowers bloom where once did run a tide

Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim

Above a field of battle stretching wide.

Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow

Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past,

The strife, the valor of the long ago

Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast

She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,

A wondrous softness on her gray old face.