268 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Cares do still their Thoughts molest, �And still th' unhappy Poet's Breast, Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a Thorn. She begins, Let all be still! �Muse, thy Promise now fulfill ! Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet Can thy Words such Accents fit, Canst thou Syllables refine, Melt a Sense that shall retain �Still some Spirit of the Brain, 20 �Till with Sounds like these it join. �'Twill not be ! then change thy Note ; �Let division shake thy Throat. Hark ! Division now she tries ; Yet as far the Muse outflies. �Cease then, prithee, cease thy Tune; �Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? Till thy Bus'ness all lies waste, And the Time of Building's past ! �Thus we Poets that have Speech, 30 �Unlike what thy Forests teach, �If a fluent Vein be shown �That's transcendent to our own, Z/riticize, reform, or preach, Or censure what we cannot reach. ���'A NOCTURNAL REVERIE �In such a Night, when every louder Wind �Is to its distant Cavern safe confin'd; �And only gentle Zephyr fans his Wings, �And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings ; �Or from some Tree, fam'd for the Owl's delight, �She, hollowing clear, directs the Wand'rer right: �In such a Night, when passing Clouds give place, ��� �
