Normale Version: To Mr. Jackson of Exeter
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To Mr. Jackson of Exeter

Though winter's storms imbrown the dusky vale,
And dark and wistful wanes the louring year;
Though bleak the moor, forlorn the cots appear,
And through 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 cher,
Warm the chill blood, and draw the rapturous tear.
Whether thou lovest 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, oérwhelming all my soul in pleasure,
Rolls the soft song of joy and endless love.