SONNET II.

Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms, Where silence never tames the mountain-roar, Where poets fear their self-created forms, Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore? Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loud With wave and tempest, cataract and cloud? Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power, That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth: For here might beauty build her summer-bower! Lo! where you rainbow spans the smiling earth, And, clothed in glory, through a silent shower The mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth; While, 'neath his loving eye, the gentle Lake Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!