Anna Seward

Sonnet 88. Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour

      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.