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EDINA, high in heaven wan, Towered, templed, Metropolitan, Waited upon by hills, River, and wide-spread ocean,—tinged By April light, or draped and fringed As April vapor wills, Thou hangest, like a Cyclop’s dream, High in the shifting weather-gleam. Fair art thou when above thy head The mistless firmament is spread; But when the twilight’s screen Draws glimmering round thy towers and spires, And thy lone bridge, uncrowned by fires, Hangs in the dim ravine, Thou art a very Persian tale,— Or Mirza’s vision, Bagdad’s vale! The spring-time stains with emerald Thy castle’s precipices bald; Within thy streets and squares The sudden summer camps, and blows The plenteous chariot-shaken rose; Or, lifting unawares My eyes from out thy central strife, Lo, far off, harvest-brazen Fife! When, raindrops gemming tree and plant, The rainbow is thy visitant, Lovely as on the moors; When sunset flecks with loving ray Thy wilderness of gables gray, And hoary embrasures; When great Sir Walter’s moon-blanched shrine, Rich carved, as Melrose, gleams divine, I know thee; and I know thee, too, On winter nights, when ’gainst the blue Thy high, gloom-wildered ridge Breaks in a thousand splendors; lamps Gleam broadly in the valley damps; Thy air-suspended bridge Shines steadfast; and the modern street Looks on, star-fretted, loud with feet. * * * * * Fair art thou, City, to the eye, But fairer to the memory: There is no place that breeds— Not Venice ’neath her mellow moons, When the sea-pulse of full lagoons Waves all her palace weeds— Such wistful thoughts of far away, Of the eternal yesterday. Within thy high-piled Canongate The air is of another date; All speaks of ancient time: Traces of gardens, dials, wells, Thy dizzy gables, oyster-shells Imbedded in the lime,— Thy shields above the doors of peers Are old as Mary Stuart’s tears. Street haunted by the step of Knox; Darnley’s long, heavy-scented locks; Ruthven’s blood-freezing stare: Dark Murray, dreaming of the crown,— His ride through fair Linlithgow town, And the man waiting there With loaded fuse, undreamed of,—wiles Of Mary, and her mermaid smiles! Thou saw’st Montrose’s passing face Shame-strike the gloating silk and lace, And jeering plumes that filled The balcony o’erhead; with pride Thou saw’st Prince Charles bareheaded ride, While bagpipes round him shrilled, And far Culloden’s smoky racks Hid scaffold craped, and bloody axe. What wine hast thou known brawl-bespilt! What daggers ruddy to the hilt! What stately minuets Walked slowly o’er thy oaken floors! What hasty kisses at thy doors! What banquetings and bets! What talk, o’er man that lives and errs, Of doubled-chinned philosophers! Great City, every morning I See thy wild fringes in the sky, Soft-blurred with smoky grace; Each evening note the blazing sun Flush luridly thy vapors dun,— A spire athwart his face; Each night I watch thy wondrous feast, Like some far city of the East. But most I love thee faint and fair, Dim-pencilled in the April air, When in the dewy bush I hear from budded thicks remote The rapture of the blackbird’s throat, The sweet note of the thrush; And all is shadowless and clear In the uncolored atmosphere.
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