Sonnet LXXXIII (THE upland shepherd, as reclined he…)

THE upland shepherd, as reclined he lies On the soft turf that clothes the mountain brow, Marks the bright Sea-line mingling with the skies; Or from his course celestial, sinking slow, The Summer-Sun in purple radiance low, Blaze on the western waters; the wide scene Magnificent, and tranquil, seems to spread Even o'er the Rustic's breast a joy serene, When, like dark plague-spots by the Demons shed, Charged deep with death, upon the waves, far seen, Move the war-freighted ships; and fierce and red, Flash their destructive fires—The mangled dead And dying victims then pollute the flood. Ah, thus man spoils Heaven's glorious works with blood!