Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic,
you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave
ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe
did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed
an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with
which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and,
when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains - alas, too few!
