Page:Elegiac Sonnets 2.pdf/59

48

Sure Desolation loves to shroud His giant form within the cloud That hovers round thy rugged head; And as thro' broken vaults beneath, The future storms low-muttering breathe, Hears the complaining voices of the dead.

Here marks the Fiend with eager eyes, Far out at sea the fogs arise That dimly shade the beacon'd strand, And listens the portentous roar Of sullen waves, as on the shore, Monotonous, they burst and tell the storm at hand.