Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
  Mindless of its just honours; with this key
  Shakespeare 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 Camöens 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!