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 Cam'Ens 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!