Sonnet.
And think’st thou, friend, great geniuses are born1
’Mongst us but each two or three hundred years ?2
Think’st thou they rise like solitary stars3
In great wide blanks of darkness ?— Noon or morn,4
July, drear winter, green woods, islands born5
Mid oceans have the selfsame sun,6
But not one spot, one hour, one season’s run.7
Give us back faith and love, and hate and scorn,8
And Dante shall arise ! Through Tasso’s song9
Sings chivalry. Let tragic passions stir10
Man’s soul, and Shakespeare’s once more speaks for her.11
As his age feels—in accents deep or strong,12
Or passionate or cold, weak or sublime,13
The poet sings—the echo of his time.14