“SCORN NOT THE SONNET; CRITIC, YOU HAVE FROWNED”

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,

Mindless of its just honours; with this key

Shakspeare 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 Camoeens soothedan exile's grief;

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf

Amid the cypress with which Dantecrowned

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!