Although I love my friend, still let me yield
This tribute to thy worth, mine enemy!
Unjust thou art, perchance, no doubt unkind,
Yet much I owe to thee, stern monitor!
Faults though thou hast, due honor shall be thine.
Close, keen-eyed critic, oft thy scrutiny
Hath made me blush defenseless, and in shame
Turn from my darling idols. Thou hast set
Full oft in paths of righteousness my feet,
That else had wandered in forbidden ways,
Lovely yet treacherous, and thy censure harsh
Hath oft rebuked my days of dalliance
In pleasant fields where pitfalls hid in flowers
Awaited me with secret perils. Yea,
Thy sneer hath been a sword to prod me on
To duty; it hath been a goading spur
To make me win a race I counted lost.
Thy jeer hath oft aroused me till I swore
To reach success despite thy prophesies
Of my defeat; thy challenge, like a blast
Of trumpets when the battle hangs in doubt,
Hath nerved my hand to snatch the victor's wreath
That else had never graced my brows. Again,
Admidst my pacans sung by parasites,
Thy frown from mien austere remindeth me
That I am merely mortal, child of dust,
Soon summoned unto strict account. Stern friend,
Not thine to soothe with silken flatteries,
Nor gloze with unctuous phrases; it is thine
To do much more—to save me from myself!