Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/49

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,