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.
(Henry Alford)
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