Sonnet XVIII. An Evening In November, Which Had Been Stormy, Gradually Clearing Up, In A Mountainous Country.

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.