“SCORN NOT THE SONNET”
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 Camoens 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 Faeryland 10 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! 1827.