“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 Camoeens 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!”

Now, here we have a place for every thing, and every thing in its place.  There is nothing irrelevant, nothing ajar.  The parts are not only each true and good and beautiful in themselves, but each is helpful to the others, and all to the author’s purpose:  every allusion, every image, every word, tells in furtherance of his aim.  There need nothing be added, there must nothing be taken away.  The argument at every step is clear and strong.  The thing begins, proceeds, and ends, just as it ought; you cannot change a word in it without injuring it:  the understanding, the imagination, the ear, are all satisfied with the result.  And the specimen is itself a full triumph of the Sonnet, from the intellectual truth and beauty and sweetness which are here put into it.  So that, what with the argument, and what with the example, the vindication of the Sonnet is perfect.  Accordingly, I believe no one has spoken lightly of the thing since that specimen was given to the public.

Many have written poetry, and good poetry too, who, notwithstanding, have not written, and could not write, a Poem.  But this sonnet is, in its measure, a genuine poem; and as such I am willing to bear the responsibility of pronouncing it faultless.  Wordsworth could do the Sonnet completely, and did it so in many instances:  and he could do more than this; in several of his longer pieces the workmanship is perhaps equally faultless; as, for instance, in Laodamia, and the Ode to Duty, which, to my sense, are perfect poems in their kind.  But to do thus through so complex and multitudinous a work as our higher specimens of the Gothic Drama, is a very different matter,—­a thing far beyond the power of a Wordsworth.  To combine and carry on together various distinct lines of thought, and various individual members of character, so that each shall constantly remember and respect the others, and this through a manifold, diversified, and intricate course of action; to keep all the parts true to the terms and relations of organic unity, each coming in and stopping just where it ought, each doing its share, and no more than its share, in the common plan, so as not to hinder the life or interfere with the rights of the others; to knit them all together in a consistent and harmonious