110 CORRA LINN.
That mighty monarch of the West
With terror in his eye ? Thou dst fear him on his Ocean-throne,
Like lion in his lair, Meek, snooded maiden, dowered with all
That father Clyde can spare.
For thou might st perch, like hooded bird,
Upon his giant hand, Nor mid his world of waters wake
A ripple on his strand. He d drink thee up, sweet Corra Linn,
And thou, to crown the sip, Would scarce a wheen of bubbles make
Upon his monstrous lip.
Thy voice, that bids the foliage quake
Around thy crystal brim, Would quaver, like the cricket s chirp,
Mid his hoarse thunder-hymn. For, like a thing that scorns the earth,
He rears his awful crest, And takes the rainbow from the skies,
And folds it round his breast.
Thou rt passing fair, sweet Corra Linn, And he, who sees thee leap
Into the bosom of the flood, Might o er thy beauty weep.
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