Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/112

What wouldst thou think, sweet Corra Linn,
    Shouldst thou Niagara spy,
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,
Wouldst 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.