7 FEBRUARY 1885, Page 14

POETRY.

THE SONNET.

MISCALL me not the poet's prison-cage Albeit of golden woof, his laurel tree To pattern pruned, Andromeda by the sea Fettered for death or Phoebus' starveling page ! But learn that Pan in earth's primordial age Sat down in sheer delight to fashion me, Tuning my stops by forest, mount, and lea To Nature's finest notes with fingers sage.

Pan dead, the Tuscan took me and fulfilled With love's immortal music. Shakespeare then His Titan spirit launched-into my mould.

Anon to Milton's thunder•song I thrilled, Pulsed with Keats' passionate heart, and unto men Witnessed with Wordsworth from the solemn wok?..

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.