THE BOOK OF SONNETS.

THE

BOOK OF SONNETS.

"Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned
Mindless of its just honours; with this Key
Shakespere unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound;
Camoens soothed with it 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!''

WORDSWORTH.

"Sundrie Flowers, bound up in one small Posie; gathered partly in fyue ontndish gardens; and partly out of our owne fruite full orchardes in Englande." TITLE OF AN OLD BOOK OF POEMS.

LONDON:

BLATCH

AND LAMPERT, PRINTERS, GROVE PLACE, BROMPTON.

T