Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.

Clyde, the River

Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde

By Thomas Campbell (1777–1844)

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.