Sonnet LXXXVIII: The Prospect a Flooded Vale

Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour,
With mind congenial to the scene, I come!
To see my Valley in the lunar gloom,
To see it whelm'd.--Amid the cloudy lour
Gleams the cold Moon;--and shows the ruthless power
Of yon swoln Floods, that white with turbid foam
Roll o'er the fields;--and, billowy as they roam,
Against the bushes beat!--A Vale no more,
A troubled Sea, toss'd by the furious Wind!--
Alas! the wild and angry Waves efface
Pathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile!--I find
But one wide waste of waters!--In controul
Thus dire, to tides of Misery and Disgrace
Love opes the flood-gates of my struggling Soul.