Sonnet, The Sonnet, The |
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Sonnet, TheSonnet, The
Sonnet, The
I
Nuns fret not at their convent`s narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness - fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, `twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet`s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
II
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 Camoens 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!
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