WILLIAM
WORDS-
WORTH.

1770-1850.

THE SONNET.

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 Camöens soothed an exile's grief;

The Sonnet glittered like a gay myrtle 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
WORDS-
WORTH.

1770-1850.

THE SONNET.

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.

WILLIAM
WORDS-

WORTH.

1770-1850.

TO SLEEP.

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!

And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;

The very sweetest Fancy culls or frames,

When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames

All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest
and into souls dost creep,

away,

Like to a breeze from heaven.

Shall I alone,

I surely not a man ungently made,

Call thee worst Tyrant by which flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,

Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

WILLIAM
WORDS-
WORTH.

*1770-1850.

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,

One after one; the sound of rain, and bees

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky;
By turns have all been thought of; yet I lie

Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies

Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away :

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?

Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day,

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

H

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

WILLIAM EARTH has not anything to show more fair;

WORDS

WORTH.

1770-1850.

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty :

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air
Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep,
And all that mighty heart is lying still!