MY MENTOR.In Bronze.
There stands beside my escritoire,
A venerable form;
His face is grave, but eloquent
Of feeling pure and warm;
I ne'er have seen his lips unclose,
By night, nor yet by day;
But ever when I take the pen,
I hear him softly say—
A venerable form;
His face is grave, but eloquent
Of feeling pure and warm;
I ne'er have seen his lips unclose,
By night, nor yet by day;
But ever when I take the pen,
I hear him softly say—
O! sully not the snowy page
With what, in after years,
May mantle with a blush thy cheek,
Or cause regretful tears:
Know, that a single drop of ink,
A million minds hath stirred;
And mighty power to wound or heal,
Lies in the written word.
With what, in after years,
May mantle with a blush thy cheek,
Or cause regretful tears:
Know, that a single drop of ink,
A million minds hath stirred;
And mighty power to wound or heal,
Lies in the written word.
The sail speeds by, and naught remains,
To mark the yielding wave;
Though freighted be the bark with death,
Or bearing help to save:
To mark the yielding wave;
Though freighted be the bark with death,
Or bearing help to save:
