"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 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 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!

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