Sonnet XII

ON some rude fragment of the rocky shore,Where on the fractured cliff the billows break,Musing, my solitary seat I take,And listen to the deep and solemn roar.

O'er the dark waves the winds tempestuous howl;The screaming sea-bird quits the troubled sea:But the wild gloomy scene has charms for me,And suits the mournful temper of my soul.

Already shipwreck'd by the storms of Fate,Like the poor mariner, methinks, I stand,Cast on a rock; who sees the distant landFrom whence no succour comes—or comes too late.Faint and more faint are heard his feeble cries,'Till in the rising tide the exhausted sufferer dies.