Cora Linn, or the Falls of Clyde


The time I saw thee, Cora, last,
'Twas with congenial friends;
And calmer hours of pleasure past
My memory seldom sends.

It was as sweet an Autumn day
As ever shone on Clyde,
And Lanark's orchards all the way
Put forth their golden pride;

Even hedges, busked in bravery,
Looked rich that sunny morn;
The scarlet hip and blackberry
So pranked September's thorn.

In Cora's glen the calm how deep!
That trees on loftiest hill
Like statues stood, or things asleep
All motionless and still.

The torrent spoke, as if his noise
Bade earth be quiet round
And give his loud and lonely voice
A more commanding sound.

His foam, beneath the yellow light
Of noon, came down like one
Continuous sheet of jaspers bright,
Broad rolling in the sun.

Dear Linn! let loftier falling floods
Have prouder names than thine;
And king of all, enthroned in woods,
Let Niagara shine.

Barbarian! let him shake his coasts
With reeking thunders far
Extended like the array of hosts
In broad embattled war!

His voice appals the wilderness:
Approaching thine, we feel
A solemn, deep, melodiousness
That needs no louder peal.

More fury would but disenchant
Thy dream-inspiring din;
Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt
Romantic Cora Linn!
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.