Poems (Angier)/My Mentor
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—
O! sully not the snowy pageWith 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: 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.