Sonnets XII: To William Jackson of Exeter

Jackson, than whom none better skilled to lead
The willing spirit captive with sweet lays,
Searching the hidden fountain-heads which feed
Our love of beauty — thine be all the praise
Of tuning to our England's hills and dales
Responsive melodies, whose music dwells
Among the memories of early tales,
And far-off chime of unforgotten bells.
With thee, sick at the boastful ignorance
Of this dull age, that hath no heart for song,
My winter hours I spend, and lead along
My thought in playful or in solemn dance,
Whether the harp discourse of fields and swains,
Or meditate high praise in angel-strains.