When wintry tempests agitate the deep,
On some lone rock I love to sit reclin'd;
And view the sea-birds on wild pinions sweep,
And hear the roaring of the stormy wind,
That, rushing thro' the caves with hollow sound,
Seems like the voices of those viewless forms
Which hover wrapp'd in gloomy mist around,
Directing in their course the rolling storms.
Then, Melancholy ! thy sweet power I feel,
For there thine influence reigns o'er all the scene;
Then o'er my heart thy "mystic transports" steal,
And from each trifling thought my bosom wean.
My raptur'd spirit soars on wing sublime
Beyond the narrow bounds of space or time!
Susan Evance (1808)
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