SONNET II.

Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms,

Where silence never tames the mountain-roar,

Where poets fear their self-created forms,

Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore?

Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loud

With wave and tempest, cataract and cloud?

Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power,

That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth:

For here might beauty build her summer-bower!

Lo! where you rainbow spans the smiling earth,

And, clothed in glory, through a silent shower

The mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth;

While,‘ neath his loving eye, the gentle Lake

Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!