University of Virginia Library

SONNET,

TO JACKSON, OF EXETER.

Enchanting harmonist! the art is thine,
Unmatch'd, to pour the soul-dissolving air
That seems poor weeping Virtue's hymn divine,
Soothing the wounded bosom of despair!

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O say, what minstrel of the sky hath given
To swell the dirge, so musically lorn?
Declare, hath dove-ey'd Pity left her heaven,
And lent thy happy hand her lyre to mourn?
So sad—thy songs of hopeless hearts complain,
Love, from his Cyprian isle, prepares to fly;
He hastes to listen to thy tender strain,
And learn from thee to breathe a sweeter sigh.