Dunedin
Men say that seven hills encircle Rome.
I can but dream of them, or learn in song
Of that still blue Campania, where there throng
The wraiths of many lovers. The dark loam
The Mantuan oxen turned ere Peter's dome
Upsoared in testimony, still is strong
To nourish grain when all the land along
Spreads the white wonder of the blossom's foam.
But this I think. The hills that dreaming stand
About this town are seven, this far place
This godchild of Dunedin. Hence a band
Of stalwart pilgrims came from bracken brown
And the cold burn, where peeweets hard at hand
Whistled their dirge the martyrs’ graves adown.

—C. R. Allen.

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