SONNET LXXXII.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave

Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon

Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;

And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave

Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave

The rous'd and turbid River surges down,

Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown

Appals the Sense.— Yet see! from yonder cave,

Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,

With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid

Steals towards the flood!— Alas!— for now appears

Her Lover's vacant boat!— the broken oars

Roll down the tide!— What images invade!

Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!