SONNET VII.

It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd O'er thy dim vastness, SKIDDAW!—Mist and cloud Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast To thee made darling music, wild and loud, Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd, As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven, A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven. I could have thought that every living form Had fled, or perished in that savage storm, So desolate the day. To me were given Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said, Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?