Sonnet, written in Autumn 1799

Stranger, when o’er yon slant, warm field no cloud
Steals,--at its foot, the verge of a wild brook,
In tangled dell, where sun-beams never look,
Press this screen’d seat, and mark the waters crowd
Close to the cliff down their steep channel rude;
Leaping o’er rugged stones, that aye provoke
Foam and hoarse murmur; while the pendant oak
Frowns o’er the little, clamorous, lonely flood.--
Impetuous Deva’s honours yield to thine,
Dear brook, for O! thy scanty billows lave
Friendship and Fancy’s consecrated shrine;
And thou may’st tell the stream of mightier wave,
Here off they muse the noontide hours away,
Who gild thy vale with intellectual ray.