Not long ago, the writer of these lines,

In the mad pride of intellectuality,

Maintained "the power of words"—denied that ever

A thought arose within the human brain

Beyond the utterance of the human tongue;

And now, as if in mockery of that boast,

Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—

Italian tones made only to be murmured

By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill"—

Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,

Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,

Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions

Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,

Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,"