DMIRING nature's simple charms,
I left my humble home,
Awhile my country's peaceful plain
With pilgrim step to roam:
I marked the leafy summer wave
On flowing Irvine's side,
But richer far 's the robe she wears
Within the vale of Clyde.
I roamed the braes of bonnie Doon,
The winding banks of Ayr,
Where flutters many a small bird gay,
Blooms many a floweret fair;
But dearer far to me the stem
That once was Calder's pride,
And blossoms now, the fairest flower,
Within the vale of Clyde.
Avaunt! thou life-repressing north!
Ye withering east-winds too!
But come, thou all-reviving west,
Breathe soft thy genial dew;
Until at length, in peaceful age,
This lovely floweret shed
Its last green leaf upon my tomb,
Within the vale of Clyde.
ORD of the vale! astounding flood;
Quakes, conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates, to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented tower!
And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little, trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country love
To look on thee, delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And to the patriot-warrior's shade,
Lord of the vale! to heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night,
Sweeps visibly the Wallace wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A champion worthy of the stream,
Yon gray tower's living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hide
A form not doubtfully descried;
Their transient mission o'er,
O, say to what blind region flee
These shapes of awful fantasy?
To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Lenidas
Devoted to the tomb.
And let no slave his head incline,
Or kneel, before the votive shrine
By Uri's lake, where Tell
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,
Heaven's instrument, for by his hand
That day the tyrant fell.
CORA LINN, OR THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE.
WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837.
HE 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.
OR, THE GLEN OF THE MIST.
[Y beauteous corri! where cattle wander, –
My misty corri! my darling dell! Mighty, verdant, and covered over
With wild-flowers tender of sweetest smell; Dark is the green of thy grassy clothing,
Soft swell thy hillocks most green and deep,
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