as a natural recognition of her genius, and happily was never undeceived.  However innocent the Sentimental Song Book may be of any literary value, the writer’s sincere attempt to express her ideas are as plain as the face which embellishes the cover of the book.  She was an ignorant woman, and her utter disregard of grammatical and poetic principles can be easily forgiven.  But what can be said in behalf of Mrs. L., a graduate of the Oxford Female College, Ohio, when, in a piece entitled “Genesis,” occurs this passage?

  “Once, the stars the Lord has scattered
  Bountifully on the sky,
  Some soul thought they there were spattered
  For an ornamental dye;
  The huge Opalescent Concave
  Wore the polish of a stone
  Which the fracturing fires engrave
  With a thunder-splitting tone;
  And the things they claimed as sponsors
  For the young religious thought
  Were the things that were the monsters
  Recently from chaos brought. 
  Then the tree inlaced in corsets
  Laced some maiden in its arms,
  ’Twas a lover’s trick, to toss its
  Purgatories at her charms,
  And the lilies in the shallows,
  And the echoes ’mong the hills,
  And the torrents in their wallows,
  And the wind’s great organ mills,
  And the waters of the fountain,
  And the mists upon the river
  Had the gods who made a mountain
  Of our cosmographic sliver.”

Evidently they did not give as thorough a course in the pronunciation of French at the Oxford Female College as they do here at Williams.  At least this deplorable fact is indicated by the first stanza of “La Fille du Regiment”: 

  “Proudly marches on the nation
    Which its patriots will defend,
  But remains a loyal station
    With its daughters to commend,
  Cheerfully to send the heroes
    Who are called to field and tent,
  Cheers for those who hold the vetoes,
    Vive la Fille du Regiment.”

Shall we attribute it to a coincidence that Mrs. L.’s best poem strikes a very familiar chord?  It is called the “River of Tears”: 

  “The world is swept by a sorrowful flood,
    The flood of a river of tears,
  Poured from the exhaustless human heart
    For thousands and thousands of years. 
  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.