Volume 3 — 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 Yon rous’d and turbid river surges down, Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown Appals our 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!