Page:Poems Angier.djvu/210

Air-vessels are the words we speak
 We launch them on the wind;
A moment—and the aerial craft
 May leave no wake behind.

But not thus with the written thought—
 The line your careless pen,
Shall prove, in after years, the source
 Of ill, or good to men:
A sacred, holy trust, is thine,
 O scribe, abuse it not;
Nor write what dying thou may'st wish,
 With burning tears to blot.

Thanks to thee—faithful monitor—
 Thy caution, kindly given,
Sounds like a sainted father's voice,
 Speaking from yon blue heaven—
I bow me to thy counsels sage,
 Thou mentor, old and gray;
So shall thy wisdom consecrate
 Both page and pen to-day.