SONNET XVIII.

Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall

From the drench'd roof;— yet murmurs the sunk wind

Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find

Whistling thro’ yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall.

The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal,

Tho’ distant.— A few stars, emerging kind,

Shed their green, trembling beams.— With lustre small,

The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind,

Glides o'er that shaded hill.— Now blasts remove

The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow,

Full-orb'd, she shines.— Half sunk within its cove

Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound;— and lo!

Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove

The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow.