Quebec

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 valour, of the long ago Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast, She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her grey old face.