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 Camoens soothed an exile’s grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay mirtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow; a glowworm 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! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ―――― TRANSLATION BY M. DE ST. BEUVE. Ne ris point des sonnets, ô critique moqueur; Par amour autrefois en fit le grand Shakspeare; C’est sur ce luth heureux que Petrarque soupire, Et que le Tasse aux fers soulage un pen son cœur; Camoens de son exil abrège la longueur, Car il chante en sonnets l’amour et son empire: Dante aime cette fleur de myrte, et la respire, Et la mêle au cyprès que ceint son front vainqueur. Spenser, s’en revenant de l’ile des féeries, Exhale en longs sonnets ses tristesses chéries; Milton, chantant les siens, ranimait son regard: Moi! je veux rajeunir le doux sonnet en France, Du Bellay, le premier, l’apporta de Florence, Et l’on en sait plus d’un de notre vieux Ronsard. ―――― AN AMERICAN PARODY. Scorn not the meerschaum. Housewives, you have croaked In ignorance of its charms. Through this small reed Did Milton, now and then, consume the weed; The poet Tennyson hath oft evoked The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked And wrote and sang in nicotinian mood; Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude; A thousand times this pipe hath Lowell smoked; Full oft hath Aldrich, Stoddard, Taylor, Cranch, And many more whose verses float about, Puffed the Virginian or Havana leaf; And when the poet’s or the artist’s branch, Drops no sustaining fruit, how sweet to pout Consolatory whiffs――alas, too brief! ―――― BULL IN THE PRINTING OFFICE. _A Wordsworthian Sonnet._