Sonnet LXXXIII

THE upland shepherd, as reclined he liesOn the soft turf that clothes the mountain brow,Marks the bright Sea-line mingling with the skies;Or from his course celestial, sinking slow,The Summer-Sun in purple radiance low,Blaze on the western waters; the wide sceneMagnificent, and tranquil, seems to spreadEven o'er the Rustic's breast a joy serene,When, like dark plague-spots by the Demons shed,Charged deep with death, upon the waves, far seen,Move the war-freighted ships; and fierce and red,Flash their destructive fires—The mangled deadAnd dying victims then pollute the flood.Ah, thus man spoils Heaven's glorious works with blood!