Sonnet LXXXII

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave

Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon

Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;

And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave

Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave

The rous'd and turbid River surges down,

Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown

Appals the Sense.—Yet see! from yonder cave,

Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,

With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid

Steals towards the flood!—Alas!—for now appears

Her Lover's vacant boat!—the broken oars

Roll down the tide!—What images invade!

Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!