| Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867. | | | | VII. Chaucer | | By Sir John Hanmer (1809–1881) |
| | | WHEN I remember how, nor separate chance, | |
| Nor restless traffic, peopling many a shore, | |
| Nor old tradition with innumerous lore, | |
| But poets wrought our best inheritance, | |
| Sweet words and noble, in their gay science | 5 |
| That England heard, and then forevermore | |
| Loved as her own, and did with deeds adore; | |
| I bless thee with a kindred heart, Provence: | |
| For to thy tales, like waves that come and go, | |
| Sat Chaucer listening with exulting ear, | 10 |
| And casting his own phrase in giant mould, | |
| That still had charms for sorrow’s gentlest tear | |
| Telling the story of Griselda’s woe, | |
| “Under the roots of Vesulus the cold.” | | | | |
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