"You are very apt," She said, "at learning, but a little bald In statement. Nathless, be it as you say; And we shall see how it is possible That poets need instruction quite as much As those for whom they write. What sad, bad men The brightest geniuses have been! How weak, How mean in character! how foul in life! How feebly have the best of them retained The wealth of good and beauty which has flowed In crystal streams from God, the fountain head, Through them to fertilize the world! Nay, worse, How many of them have infused the tide With tincture of their own impurity, To poison sweetest, unsuspecting lips, And breed diseases in the finest blood! And poets not alone, and not the worst; But painters, sculptors--those whose kingly power And aptitude for utterance divine Have made them artists:--how have these contemned In countless instances the God of Heaven Who filled them with his fire! Think you that these Could compass their achievements of themselves? Can streams surpass their fountains?" "Nay," I said, In quick response, "Your argument is good; But is the artist nothing? Is he nought But an apt tool--a mouth-piece for a voice? You make him but the spigot of a cask Round which you, teachers, wait with silver cups To bear away the wine that leaves it dry. You magnify your office." "We do all Wait upon God for every grace and good," She then rejoined. "You take it at first hand, And we from yours: the multitude from ours. It may leach through our souls, if our poor wills Retain it not, and drench the fragrant sand. And if I magnify my office--well! 'Tis a great office. What would come of all The music of the masters, did not we Wait at their doors, to publish to the world What God has told them? They would be as mute As the dumb Sphynx. They write a symphony, An opera, an oratorio, In language that the teacher understands, And straight the whole world echoes to its strains It shrills and thunders through cathedral glooms From golden organ-tubes and voiceful choirs; The halls of art of both the hemispheres Resound with its divinest melodies; The street stirs with the impulse, and we hear The blare of martial trumpets, and the tramp Of bannered armies swaying to its rhythm; The hurdy-gurdies and the whistling boys Adopt the lighter strains; and round and round A million souls its hovering fancies float, Like butterflies above a fair parterre, Till, settling one by one, they sleep at last; And lo! two petals more on every flower! And this not all; for though the master die, The teacher lives forever. On and on, Through all the generations, he shall preach The beautiful evangel;--on and on, Till our poor race has passed the tortuous years That lie prevening the millennium, And slid into that broad and open sea,