He taught me my geology;
From him I knew
How, in their rabble rout,
The crazy crew.
Of giants threw
Their pudding and their plums about.

He taught me modesty;
In sitting at his feet
I said that I
Would never try
To be
As funny as is he.
And this, dear “Critic,” will account for me.

And how to breakfast he
Has taught the world,—to be
Wise in such wise as Wisdom's self is wise;
Yet playful, kind, and true;
To mingle old and new,
And well the mixture brew;
With fittest reason
The bowl to season,
Then ladle out, profuse, for me and you.
But when the war-cloud growls and lowers
Above the land,
He takes command,
And shows the coward how to try,
And shows the bravest how to die;
Tyrtæus sings, and cheers his boys and ours!

Blessings and thanks and praise,
In stumbling verse, in sweetest lays;
And if grief come
Even to a prophet-poet's home,
To him some measure of the peace and faith,
The hope and strength which conquer death,
Which, in our darker days,
With all a poet's prophecy,
And all a prophet's poetry,
And all a wise man's wisdom, he
Has sent to comfort you and me.