It is sweeping thousands and thousands of lives
On its currents, swift and strong,
O the river of tears for thousands of years
Has swept like a flood along."
Perhaps its poetic merit may be explained by the first few lines of
Bryant's "Flood of Years":
"A mighty hand from an exhaustless urn
Pours forth the never ending flood of years
Among the nations. How the rushing waves
Bear all before them!"
--and so on. There is no need of continuing.
But why disturb the bones of poor Mrs. L., who is but one of the many
thousands of contributors to mortal verse? May they rest in peace. She
had her dream, and never woke out of it. Undoubtedly she was all the
happier as it was. And now let the Sweet Singer raise her harmonious
voice once more, and close this paper with the last stanza of her
poem, "The Author's Early Life," which I think is the most beautifully
extraordinary--since I cannot say extraordinarily beautiful--of the
entire collection.
"My childhood days have passed and gone,
And it fills my heart with pain
To think that they will nevermore
Return to me again.
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