Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/49

Rh Far from these frigid summers of temper'd sun, Nor France nor England, Italy for me! The city call'd Parthenopé of old, The Siren city bordering the bay, A hem of silver on a purple sea, Where Naples calls God's fiery judgment down, From raging vehement Vesuvio, The suburb stricken for the city's sin. Something too near the elemental fires For us cold-blooded English, what of Rome? Her air's too heavy with mortality, And breathes a savour of the Cæsar's crimes, Among the ruins of Imperial things Sinister, set upon her seven hills, She tends her dying fire, like a crone, Crouching in purple rags above the ash, Revolving, weary, yet insatiate Memories of the wild, old, wicked days! Nor will we dwell, where looking o'er the Seine, A dull and liquorish devil leans and leers,