SONNET VII.

It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd

O'er thy dim vastness, SKIDDAW!— Mist and cloud

Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast

To thee made darling music, wild and loud,

Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd,

As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,

A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd

Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.

I could have thought that every living form

Had fled, or perished in that savage storm,

So desolate the day. To me were given

Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said,

Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul

Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?