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.