From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave
Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon
Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;
And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave
Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave
The rous'd and turbid River surges down,
Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown
Appals the Sense.—Yet see! from yonder cave,
Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,
With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid
Steals towards the flood!—Alas!—for now appears
Her Lover's vacant boat!—the broken oars
Roll down the tide!—What images invade!
Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!