56 EDINBURGH PAST AND PRESENT.
On the following day her Majesty unveiled the Albert Memorial in
Charlotte Square. James Smith in his poem-a copy of which the Queen
was graciously pleased to accept-writes :-
’ ‘ Welcome to lair Dunedin’s bowers :
Her lordly halls and regal towers,
Enwreath’d with bannerets and flowers,
Fond wishes breathe to thee.
Hark to the shouts that greet thy name !
Hark to the bugle’s loud acclaim I
Roll on, the chariot of thy fame,
Queen of the Brave and Free I
Through mighty myriads, vast and dense,
Thou rovest void of fear ;
The people’s love thy sure defence,-
Thy buckler, sword, and spear.
God’s blessing possessing,
Thy days illustrious shine
With glory; while o’er thee,
Peace, love, and joy entwine.
Lo I mid the warlike trumpet’s blare,
And cheers that rend the balmy air,
Behold unveil’d a Statue Gr,-
True likeness of the dead !
Calmly majestic and serene;
Prince Albert looks upon his Queen,
Who thinks on all that once hath been,
And lowly bows her head.
Memorial from the hardy North,
Embalm’d in sighs and tears;
Fond tribute to departed worth,
Through all the rolling years
Descending, unending ;
The grandeur, the splendour
Proclaiming, Queen of Fame,
That crowns thy Husband’s name.’
On this occasion the sculptor, John Steell, R.S.A., and Professor Oakeley,
received the honour of knighthood, and Lord Provost Falshaw the dignity
of a Baronetcy.
With reference to an earlier Royal visit to Holyrood, the Queen in her
Diary says:--‘We saw the rooms where Queen Mary lived, her bed, the
dressing-room into which the murderers entered who killed Rizzio, and the
spot where he fell, where, as the old housekeeper said to me, “if the lady
would stand on that side,” I would see that the boards were discoloured by
the blood. Every step is full of historical recollections, and our living here
is quite an epoch in the annals of this old pile, which has seen so many
deeds, more bad, I fear, than good.’
Let 11s now suppose ourselves, as the scene in thk Engraving suggests, by
the Tron Church on a New Year‘s eve. Looking down the street, the house
of John Knox projects a little into the roadway; nearer the eye, on the right
of the picture, a modem turret leaning against the midnight sky marks the
site of old Blackfriars’ Wynd; while in the foreground the tall ‘lands’ on the
left tell us where Fergusson the poet was born, and
’ Whaur . . . Ramsay woo’d the Muses
In days long past.‘
A light from Hunter Square falls upon the church, and looking above the
