Poem by John Codrington Bampfylde

Sonnet. To Mr Jackson of Exeter

Tho' Winter's storms embrown the dusky vale,
And dark and wistful wains the low'ring year;
Tho' bleak the Moor, forlorn the Cots appear,
And thro' the hawthorn sighs the sullen gale;
Yet do thy Strains most rare, thy Lays ne'er fail,
'Midst the drear Scene my drooping heart to cheer;
Warm the chill blood, and draw the rapturous tear.
Whether thou lov'st in mournful mood to wail
Lycid, ``bright Genius of the sounding shore,''
Or else with slow and solemn hymns to move
My thoughts to Piety and Virtue's lore;
But chiefest when, (if Delia grace the measure)
Thy Lyre, o'erwhelming all my soul in pleasure,
Rolls the soft song of joy and endless love,

1. Sonnet. On the Abbé Reynall’s History of the Establishments in the East and West Indies
2. Sonnet. On Having Dined at Trinity College, Oxford
3. Sonnet. On the Evening
4. Sonnet. To Mr. Warton, on Reading His History of English Poetry
5. Sonnet. On a Stormy Sea - Prospect

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