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.