Canada Not Last

At Venice lo Venice, gay with color, lights and song, Calls from St. Mark’s with ancient voice and strange: I am the Witch of Cities! glide along My silver streets that never wear by change Of years: forget the years, and pain, and wrong, And ever sorrow reigning men among. Know I can soothe thee, please and marry thee To my illusions. Old and siren strong, I smile immortal, while the mortals flee Who whiten on to death in wooing me. AT FLORENCE Say, what more fair by Arno’s bridgèd gleam Than Florence, viewed from San Miniato’s slope At eventide, when west along the stream The last of day reflects a silver hope!— Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam:— The city’s mass blent in one hazy cream, The brown Dome ’midst it, and the Lily tower, And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that seem Afar, like clouds to fade, and hills of power On this side greenly dark with cypress, vine and bower. AT ROME End of desire to stray I feel would come Though Italy were all fair skies to me, Though France’s fields went mad with flowery foam And Blanc put on a special majesty, Not all could match the growing thought of home Nor tempt to exile. Look I not on Rome— This ancient, modern, mediæval queen— Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome, Imperial ruin and villa’s princely scene Lovely with pictured saints and marble gods serene. REFLECTION Rome, Florence, Venice—noble, fair and quaint, They reign in robes of magic round me here; But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim! I see the fields, I see the autumn hand Of God upon the maples! Answer Him With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst! I see the sun break over you: the mist On hills that lift from iron bases grand Their heads superb!—the dream, it is my native land.