Written
to
a
near
Neighbour
in
a
tempestuous
Night
,
1748.
By
the
Same
.
I.
YOU
bid
my
Muse
not
cease
to
sing
,
You
bid
my
ink
not
cease
to
flow
;
Then
say
it
ever
shall
be
spring
,
And
boisterous
winds
shall
never
blow
:
When
you
such
miracles
can
prove
,
I'll
sing
of
friendship
,
or
of
love
.
II
.
But
now
,
alone
,
by
storms
opprest
,
Which
harshly
in
my
ears
resound
;
No
cheerful
voice
with
witty
jest
,
No
jocund
pipe
to
still
the
sound
;
Untrain'd
beside
in
verse-like
art
,
How
shall
my
pen
express
my
heart
?
III
.
In
vain
I
call
th'
harmonious
Nine
,
In
vain
implore
Apollo's
aid
;
Obdurate
,
they
refuse
a
line
,
While
spleen
and
care
my
rest
invade
,
Say
,
shall
we
Morpheus
next
implore
,
And
try
if
dreams
befriend
us
more
?
IV
.
Wisely
at
least
he'll
stop
my
pen
,
And
with
his
poppies
crown
my
brow
:
Better
by
far
in
lonesome
den
To
sleep
unheard
of
—
than
to
glow
With
treach'rous
wildfire
of
the
brain
,
Th'
intoxicated
poet's
bane
.