Томас Кэмпбелл (Thomas Campbell)

Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde

Written on Revisiting It in 1837

THE TIME I saw thee, Cora, last,
’T was 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 by 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 appalls 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.

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