"Sonnet." by Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800)
WHEN the loud torrent rushing from the rock,
Spreads desolation o'er the plain below;
In vain the SHEPHERD seeks his little flock,
Where o'er the meadows foaming waters flow;
Fix'd in Despair he wildly gazes round,
He sees his plenteous fields o'erwhelm'd and lost;
His golden harvest by the whirlwind tost;
And his neat cottage levell'd with the ground.
No trace exists of forest, hut, or green,
Still the high CASTLE mocks the fateful hour;
Tow'ring it stands amidst the delug'd scene,
Scorns the wild wave, and mocks the tempest's pow'r.
So to Oppression bows the hapless swain,
WHILE THE PROUD TYRANT LORDS IT O'ER THE PLAIN !