SONNET LXXXVIII.

Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour,

With mind congenial to the scene, I come!

To see my Valley in the lunar gloom,

To see it whelm'd.— Amid the cloudy lour

Gleams the cold Moon;— and shows the ruthless power

Of yon swoln Floods, that white with turbid foam

Roll o'er the fields;— and, billowy as they roam,

Against the bushes beat!— A Vale no more,

A troubled Sea, toss'd by the furious Wind!—

Alas! the wild and angry Waves efface

Pathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile!— I find

But one wide waste of waters!— In controul

Thus dire, to tides of Misery and Disgrace

Love opes the flood-gates of my struggling Soul.