The tones of visions which have only dwelt
In that deep bosom which has wildly felt—
Those notes like far off music from the plain,
Where grief nor hate can e'er be known again—
That haunt the spirit 'midst this lower sphere,
And wake the dreamer's ever faithful tear—
How die away in saddest silence all
Those strains, O Criticus! when thou dost—"squall!"
Sagacious Criticus! no witling's wit,
Compares with thine, or durst compare with it.