STANZAS.
BY L. E. L.
Oh life, what wouldst thou be, but that thine end
Has hope!
My heart hath turned away
From its early dream;
To me its course has been
Like a mountain stream.
Pure and clear it left
Its place of birth;
But soon on every wave
Were taints of earth.
Weeds grew upon the banks,
And as the waters swept
A bad or useless part,
Of all they kept
