Sonnet XVIII. An Evening In November, Which Had Been Stormy, Gradually Clearing Up, In A Mountainous Country.

Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fall
From the drench'd roof; - yet murmurs the sunk wind
Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find
Whistling thro' yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall.
The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal,
Tho' distant. - A few stars, emerging kind,
Shed their green, trembling beams. - With lustre small,
The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind,
Glides o'er that shaded hill. - Now blasts remove
The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow,
Full-orb'd, she shines. - Half sunk within its cove
Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound; - and lo!
Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove
The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow.