Life as a River

Life has been compared to many things; oftenest, perhaps, to a river, down which we voyage in a boat. At first we glide down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings of the little brook, and the winding of the grassy borders. The trees shed their blossoms over our young heads, the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our young hands; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around us; but the stream hurries us on, and still our hands are empty.

Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated at the moving pictures of enjoyment and industry passing around us. We are excited at some short-lived disappointment. The stream hurries us on, and our joys and our griefs are alike left behind us.

We may be shipwrecked; we can not be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the river hastens to its home. At length the roar of the ocean is in our ears, the tossing of the waves beneath our feet, the land lessens from our eyes, the floods are lifted up around us, and of our further voyage no mortal knows. The wind is always off-shore, and no boat ever returns.