APPENDIX B.
Reading edition
‘The Waterfall, Cora Linn.’—Page 36.
The following poem belongs to the series entitled Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1814. It is in a later, not better, manner than those of 1803. Prefixed to it in the later editions of the Poet’s works are these words: ‘I had seen this celebrated waterfall twice before. But the feelings to which it had given birth were not expressed till they recurred in presence of the object on this occasion.’
COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, in sight of wallace’s tower.
‘—How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty.’—MS.
Lord of the vale! astounding Flood; The dullest leaf in this thick wood 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 grey 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 phantasy? 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 thrill the shadowy gloom, That still invests the guardian Pass, Where stood, sublime, Leonidas Devoted to the tomb.
Nor deem that it can aught avail For such to glide with oar or sail Beneath the piny wood, Where Tell once drew, by Uri’s lake, His vengeful shafts—prepared to slake Their thirst in Tyrants’ blood.