Corra Linn.
Thou speak’st with tongue of tempest, Corra Linn !1
Shaking the heart ; thou tell’st in awful tone2
How frail earth’s tenant, proud, tho’ slave to sin—3
How grand is He, who hath uprear’d his throne4
On the firm hills ; who utters forth his word,5
The voice of many waters ; bids the tree6
Bloom o’er the stream that feeds it, and the bird7
Blend with thy roar its fainter melody.8
Who bids the drops which on the mountains fall,9
Commingling, deep’ning, valeward force their way,10
Thundering through cliffs, till ocean swallows all, 11
Whence rich-dew’d clouds the debt to earth repay :12
Who in that bow,* at anger smiling still,13
Paints, in the sun’s own light, the pledge of Heaven’s good will.14
* The rainbow in the basin of the fall.