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FROM ARTHUR'S SEAT.
"There are no stars like the Edinburgh street-lamps."—R. L. S.
From Arthur's Seat there lies displayed
The city in her dim brocade,
And stitching it with useful stars
The unseen tailors ply their trade.
The blue of dusk deeps into night
Then flash the leaping seams of light,
By magic needlework there runs
The gleaming pattern, golden bright.
Across and over, up and down
The sombre garments of the town
Swift hands are hemming threads of gold,
And sewing jewels on her gown.
Master, your town of long ago
Still wears those yellow stars. And lo
The brightest-shining of them all
Is by the house in Heriot Row!
