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