Rain’s fountain-head, the magazine of hail;
Above the northern nests of feather’d snows,
The brew of thunders, and the flaming forge
That forms the crooked lightning; ’bove the caves
Where infant tempests wait their growing wings,
And tune their tender voices to that roar,
Which soon, perhaps, shall shake a guilty world; 627
Above misconstrued omens of the sky,
Far-travell’d comets’ calculated blaze;
Elance[58] thy thought, and think of more than man.