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,