Thoughts, that have tarried in my mind, and peopled its inner chambers,

The sober children of reason, or desultory train of fancy;

Clear running wine of conviction, with the scum and the lees of speculation;

Corn from the sheaves of science, with stubble from mine own garner:

Searchings after Truth, that have tracked her secret lodes,

And come up again to the surface-world, with a knowledge grounded deeper;

Arguments of high scope, that have soared to the key-stone of heaven,

And thence have swooped to their certain mark, as the falcon to its quarry;

The fruits I have gathered of prudence, the ripened harvest of my musings,

These commend I unto thee, O docile scholar of Wisdom,

These I give to thy gentle heart, thou lover of the right.

What, though a guilty man renew that hallowed theme,

And strike with feebler hand the harp of Sirach's son?

What, though a youthful tongue take up that ancient parable,

And utter faintly forth dark sayings as of old?

Sweet is the virgin honey, though the wild bee have stored it in a reed,

And bright the jewelled band, that circleth an Ethiop's arm;

Pure are the grains of gold in the turbid stream of Ganges,

And fair the living flowers, that spring from the dull cold sod.

Wherefore, thou gentle student, bend thine ear to my speech,

For I also am as thou art; our hearts can commune together:

To meanest matters will I stoop, for mean is the lot of mortal;

I will rise to noblest themes, for the soul hath an heritage of glory:

The passions of puny man; the majestic characters of God;

The feverish shadows of time, and the mighty substance of eternity.

Commend thy mind unto candour, and grudge not as though thou hadst a teacher,

Nor scorn angelic Truth for the sake of her evil herald;

Heed not him, but hear his words, and care not whence they come;

The viewless winds might whisper them, the billows roar them forth,

The mean unconscious sedge sigh them in the ear of evening,

Or the mind of pride conceive, and the mouth of folly speak them.

Lo now, I stand not forth laying hold on spear and buckler,

I come a man of peace, to comfort, not to combat;

With soft persuasive speech to charm thy patient ear,

Giving the hand of fellowship, acknowledging the heart of sympathy:

Let us walk together as friends in the shaded paths of meditation,

Nor Judgment set his seal until he hath poised his balance;

That the chastenings of mild reproof may meet unwitting error,

And Charity not be a stranger at the board that is spread for brothers.

Few and precious are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter:

To what shall their rarity be likened? What price shall count their worth?

Perfect and much to be desired, and giving joy with riches,

No lovely thing on earth can picture all their beauty.

They be chance pearls, flung among the rocks by the sullen waters of Oblivion,

Which Diligence loveth to gather, and hang around the neck of Memory;

They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted from the islands of the blessed,

Which Thought carefully tendeth, in the kindly garden of the heart;

They be sproutings of an harvest for eternity, bursting through the tilth of time,

Green promise of the golden wheat, that yieldeth angels' food;

They be drops of the crystal dew, which the wings of seraphs scatter,

When on some brighter sabbath, their plumes quiver most with delight:

Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter.

Yet more, for the half is not said, of their might, and dignity, and value;

For life-giving be they and glorious, redolent of sanctity and heaven:

As fumes of hallowed incense, that veil the throne of the Most High;

As beaded bubbles that sparkle on the rim of the cup of immortality;

As wreaths of the rainbow spray, from the pure cataracts of truth:

Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter.

Yet once again, loving student, suffer the praises of thy teacher,