From: Poems (1844)
Author: Christopher Pearse Cranch
Published: Carey and Hart 1844 Philadelphia



“SCORN not the Sonnet :”* thus hath sung the Bard
Of holy Faith and calm Philosophy:
And well the sage hath taught us to regard
The lesson in his own dear Poesy.
O might I but an humble follower be,
And tune my own “small lute” to sing my dreams
Of Beauty and of Truth, I’d bear to see
The critic frown upon these passing gleams,
Since such has been the fate of those bright ones
Who loudest, sweetest, swept the Poet’s lyre:
And fain I’d stop and listen while those sons
Of music pass. O from their cars of fire
Might the seer’s mantle drop on one so low,
It were a prophet’s gift-but never may be so.

* See Wordsworth’s Sonnet commencing with these words.

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