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 even its beautiful form of composition, ever so artistically wrought out of rich material, can affect the human mind, unless the vital spark animates the whole, any more than other forms of art through which no spiritual meaning is conveyed. But he, who in a true Sonnet can see nothing but the imaginary laborious process of its execution, would probably stand before a Grecian temple calculating the labour and manner of its construction; while the lover of Art, blind to its processes, in silent awe worshipped the grandeur of its complete manifestation.

A Sonnet, in the highest sense, naturally obeys the law of art, which is to conceal its processes. And where, in the Sonnets of Petrarch, of Milton, of Shakspeare, of Coleridge, or of Wordsworth, can any “anointed eye” see the least shadow of constraint, or trace of effort? So unconstrainedly do the poetic language and imagery arrange their metrical feet in the beautiful order of the Sonnet,—while the one luminous idea, like electricity, runs through the whole,—that the mind which can perceive, sees only the radiant thought, yet feels that a harmonious chain is its conductor.

Nor is the Sonnet such an effort to the poet, as the machine poetaster or mechanical reader may suppose. All will allow that love utters itself through the most natural forms of expression. Petrach’s love for Laura gave birth to the Sonnet: it was not the invention of mechanical genius; but a living creation, that owes its being to the strong emotions of hopeless passion. And, if, when reproduced in its original likeness, its beauty and vital power are unfelt, depend upon it, the fault is not in the Sonnet.

Born in Italy—and how can anything lack music or warmth that originated under those glowing skies?—and introduced into England by Lord Surrey, the Sonnet has for centuries been the medium of conveying and receiving the richest gems of poetic thought and fancy. In our opinion, Wordsworth’s Sonnets, save one or two Odes, are worth all his other poems; and he has said,