And the white dawn widened Ere he came to the last pineWhere Mark, the man from Italy, Still made the Christian sign.
The long farm lay on the large hill-side, Flat, like a painted plan,And by the side the low white house Where dwelt the southland man.
A bronzed man, with a bird's bright eye And a strong bird's beak and brow;His skin was brown like buried gold,And of certain of his sires was toldThat they came in the shining ship of old With Cæsar in the prow.
His fruit trees stood like soldiers, Drilled in a straight line;His strange stiff olives did not fail,And all the kings of the earth drank ale, But he drank wine.
Wide over wasted British plains Stood never an arch or dome,Only the trees to toss and reel,The tribes to bicker, the beasts to squeal;But the eyes in his head were strong like steel And his soul remembered Rome.
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