SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd,   Mindless of its just honours; with this key   Shakespeare unlock'd 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 sooth'd an exile's grief;   The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,   It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd 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!