# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Farewell to Edinburgh

FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH.
Fair Queen of Caledon, thou sitt'st
 Majestic and alone,
The strong arm of the rugged sea
 A girdle round thee thrown,
The gorgeous thistle in thy hand,
 That drinks the sunny ray,
While graceful on the northern breeze
 Thine unbound tresses play.
In casket of the massy rock,
 Within yon castled height,
Thou lay'st thy rich regalia by,
 Dear to thy heart, and bright,
And clasping Albion's proffered hand,
 A tear-drop in thine een,
All nobly by her side dost stand,
 Though crownless, yet a queen.
I said thou bad'st in castled nook
 Thy loved regalia rest,
And changed it for the olive branch,
 That shadoweth brow and breast.
For this no more in contest rude,
 Or challenge mad with haste,
Or savage shock of border wars,
 Thy sons their blood shall waste.
No more shalt thou stern watch and ward
 Upon those hill-tops hold,
When now the shepherd's voice at eve
 Doth warn his flocks afold;
But freely pour thy glowing soul
 To thrill the tuneful lyre,
And mark on Calton's beauteous brow
 Athenian domes aspire;
And kindly with thy guiding hand
 Assist the pilgrim wight,
Who breathless climbs to seek a seat
 On Arthur's towering height,
Or taste from old St. Antoine's well
 Cold waters sparkling free,
Or o'er that ruined chapel pore,
 Queen Margaret gave to thee.
St. Giles, like time-tried sentinel,
 Uplifts his cross on high,
And stirs his ancient might to guard
 Thy pristine majesty;
And Learning reareth massive walls
 Thy fairest haunts among,
While, as a charmed child, the world
 Doth list thy magic song.
But settling o'er thy brow I see
 A tinge of mournful thought,
For Autumn blights the heather-flower,
 That generous summer brought;
And though I seek a greener clime,
 Where flowers are fair to see,
Still, still, sweet queen of Caledon,
 My spirit turns to thee.
There may indeed be richer realms,
 Where pride and splendor roll;
But thou art skilled to soothe the pang
 That rives the stranger's soul.
There may perchance be those who say
 Thy mountain-land is drear;
Yet thou hast still the wealth that wins
 The stranger's grateful tear.
And when, my weary wanderings o'er,
 I seek my native land,
And by mine ingle-side once more
 Do clasp the kindred hand,
And when my listening children ask
 For tales of land and sea,
They fain a wreath of love will twine,
 Edina dear, for thee.
Wednesday, September 30, 1840.
The beauty of Edinburgh, in itself, and in its environs; and the intellectual atmosphere that enwraps it, are eulogized by all. We entered it with high anticipations, yet they were more than realized. Every day revealed something new, and supplied an unwearied strength to visit and to admire.
It seems more than other cities to fasten on the imagination, from the nature of its scenery, the strange events which History has embodied here, and the high native genius which has immortalized all. The contrast between the Old and New Town is most striking; one, so fresh, bold, and beautiful, the other with its dark, stifling wynds and closes, its gloomy, twelve-storied houses, quaking to their very foundations at their own loftiness, seems the abode of mysterious legends, or spectral imagery. To pass from the classic domes on Calton Hill, or the princely mansions in Moray Place, and look into the abysses of the Cowgate and Canongate, just when the early glimmer​ing lamps begin to make visible their filth, poverty, and misery, is like a sudden rush from the Elysian fields to the dominions of Pluto.
The past stands forth with peculiar distinctness in Edinburgh. It has been so well defined by her historians, that it mingles with the current of passing things. You can scarcely disentangle, from the web of the present, the associations that throng around you, while standing on the radiated spot in the pavement, where the "old cross of Dun-Edin once reared itself, walking in the purlieus of the Grass-Market, so often saturate with noble blood, or musing amid the corridors and carved ceilings of the Old Parliament-House, you pause at the trap-door, which from the "lock-up-house," eighty feet beneath, gave entrance to the haggard prisoners into the criminal court, and imagine the tide of agonizing emotions, which from age to age that narrow space has witnessed. A similar dreaminess and absorption in the past steal over you, when in the rock-ribbed Castle you gaze on the ancient regalia, so bright, yet now so obsolete; or while exploring the Register-Office, with its strong stone arches, enter the circular room, with its richly carved and sky-lighted dome, where repose in state the many massy volumes of Scotland's annals; or see in other apartments the decrees and signatures of her kings, for seven hundred years; the illuminated folio, where the articles of Union, in the reign of Queen Anne, were inscribed; and the repository of ​the crests, autographs, and seals of the ancient nobles and Highland chieftains, many of whose hands were less familiar with the pen than with the good claymore. In the archives of the Antiquarian Society, which are kept in a noble building on the plan of the Parthenon, there seems a sort of blending of antique with modern recollections, as you examine coats of mail, warriors' boots of amazing weight and capacity, the terrible two-handed sword, the cumbrous and cruel instrument of death, strangely called "The Maiden," the pulpit of John Knox, and the joint-stool hurled by Jane Geddes at the head of the dean of Peterborough, who she said was "preaching popery in her lugs," because he essayed to read the Liturgy, just commanded to be used in the churches by Charles the First.
I have hinted that an unusual perseverance animated us in our explorations of Edinburgh. We seemed neither to feel fatigue, nor to fear satiety. The acme of a traveller's zeal came over us there. It was like a first love, rendered more unquenchable by the restraints and apprehensions of the voyage, from which we had just escaped. Old Holyrood, the wind-swept eminences of Salisbury and Arthur's Seat, the cold trickling waters of St. Anthony's fountain, the rugged cairn of Nichol Muskat, and the birth-place of the magician who described it, the sweet scenery of Randolph's cliff, the squares, the statues, the drives in the suburbs, the noble University, the prince​ly libraries, the model schools, the hospitals, the churches, even the shops of the lapidaries, where the Scottish pebble is made to take its place among gems, the club-rooms, in whose luxurious arrangement men may sometimes overlook the humbler "blink of their ain fireside," the publishing houses, from whence the influence of genius and learning hath gone forth over Europe and the world; these, and many other localities which the time would fail to specify, were visited with eagerness, either on their own account, or because they appertained to this Modern Athens.
The hospitality of Scotland, and the frankness with which she receives the stranger into her heart of hearts, were fully illustrated in her favorite and most intellectual city. For me, it was deepened by that kindness which sudden sickness calls forth in sympathetic and Christian hearts. And it was not without surprise, that I, who had maintained a sort of concealed homesickness, a nightly yearning after my distant dear ones, found my eyes wet with tears, and a new home-feeling painfully uprooted, at bidding farewell to Edinburgh.