But whither am I led? This Artless Grief
Hurries the Muse on obstinate and deaf
To all the nicer Rules, and bears her down
From the tall Fabrick to the Neighbouring Ground:
The pleasing Hours and the dear Moments past
In these sweet Fields reviving on my Tast
Snatch me away resistless with Impetuous hast.
Spread thy strong Pinions once again my Song,
And reach the Turret thou hast left so long:
O're the wide Roof its lofty Head it rears,
Waiting for our Converse; but only hears
The noisie Tumults of the Realms on high;
The Winds salute it Whistling as they fly,
Or jarring round the Windows; Rattling Showers
Lash the fair Sides, above loud Thunder roars,
But still the Master Sleeps; nor hears the Voice
Of Sacred Friendship, nor the Tempests noise:
An Iron Slumber sits on every Sence,
In vain the Heavenly Thunders strice to rouze it thence.