George Parsons Lathrop

Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust - Thy star-like beauty, dimm'd with earthly dust,

O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain! How welcome is its delicate overture

I. O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain!

Through the pauses of thy fervid singing Fell crystal sound That thy fingers from the keys were flinging

For them that hope in Thee.... Thou shalt hide them in the secret of Thy face, from the disturbance of men. Thou shalt protect them in Thy tabernacle from the contradiction of tongues. Blessed be the Lord, for He hath shewn His wonderful mercy to me in a fortified city. - Psalm xxx.

When the mornings dankly fall With a dim forethought of rain, And the robins richly call

The soul of a nation awaking, - High visions of daybreak, - I saw; A people renewed; the forsaking

The soul of a nation awaking, - High visions of daybreak I saw, And the stir of a state, the forsaking

Before the golden gate she stands, With drooping head, with idle hands Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight

I Veteran memories rally to muster Here at the call of the old battle days:

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air.

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the windy rain. A thousand leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air,

"Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to say. Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day, If you'd been here. Now, - he's gone away.

Over the mossy walls, Above the slumbering fields Where yet the ground no fruitage yields,

Far out at sea there has been a storm, And still, as they roll their liquid acres, High-heaped the billows lower and glisten.

Wide as the sky Time spreads his hand, And blindly over us there blows A swarm of years that fill the land,

Now the last wreath of snow That melts, in mist exhales White aspiration, and our deep-voiced gales

Veiled in visionary haze, Behold, the ethereal autumn days Draw near again!

I Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands.

To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child, - Where soft lights rippled and the shadows tarried Within a church's shelter arched and aisled, -

Glad hours have been when I have seen Life's scope and each dry day's intent United; so that I could stand

I push on through the shaggy wood, I round the hill: 't is here it stood; And there, beyond the crumbled walls,

[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622] The strong and the tender, The young and the old,

A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; A laughing face; and laughing hair, - So ruddy was its rise

A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; A laughing face; - and laughing hair, So ruddy does it rise

I Victors, living, with laureled brow, And you that sleep beneath the sward!

I Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march? And what shall be the music of his dirge?

A youth unto herself Grief took, Whom everything of joy forsook, And men passed with denying head,

Her moods are like the fountain's, changing ever, That spouts aloft a sudden, watery dome, Only to fall again in shattering foam,

Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom; Weaves a mantle rich and dark,

Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom, Weaves a mantle rich and dark,

And did you think my heart Could keep its love unchanging, Fresh as the buds that start

My love for thee is like a winged seed Blown from the heart of thy rare beauty's flower, And deftly guided by some breezy power

Here stands the great tree still, with broad bent head; Its wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves

Here stands the great tree still, with broad, bent head, And wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves

Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown Light vapors white, like thistle-down, That from their softened silver heaps opaque

[CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY, 1863] I The sun had set;

Dear face - bright, glinting hair; Dear life, whose heart is mine - The thought of you is prayer,

A thousand times I would have hoped, A thousand times protested; But still, as through the night I groped,

"There, on the left!" said the colonel: the battle had shuddered and faded away, Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only ashes and blood-sprinkled clay - "Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where the enemy's sharpshooters stood.

[FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20] On this day to life she came - May-Rose, my May-Rose!

Daughter of my nobler hope That dying gave thee birth, Sweet Melancholy!

Music is in all growing things; And underneath the silky wings Of smallest insects there is stirred

With my beloved I lingered late one night. At last the hour when I must leave her came: But, as I turned, a fear I could not name

With my beloved I lingered late one night. At last the hour when I must leave her came: But, as I turned, a fear I could not name

Haunted by unknown feet - Ways of the midnight hour! Strangely you murmur below me,

O jay - Blue-jay! What are you trying to say?

O wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array,

O Wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array,

O wayward rose, why dost thou wreathe so high, Wasting thyself in sweet-breath'd ecstasy? "The pulses of the wind my life uplift,

The sea goes up; the sky comes down. Oh, can you spy the ancient town, - The granite hills so green and gray,

The sea goes up; the sky comes down. Oh, can you spy the ancient town, - The granite hills so hard and gray,

Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!) Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed

Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!) Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed

Strike hands, young men! We know not when Death or disaster comes,

Birds that like vanishing visions go winging, White, white in the flame of the sunset's burning, Fly with the wild spray the billows are flinging,

Valleys lay in sunny vapor, And a radiance mild was shed From each tree that like a taper

Standing here alone, Let me pause awhile, Drinking in the light

How sweetly sang the bobolink, When thou, my love, wast nigh! His liquid music from the brink

How sweetly sang the bobolink, When thou, my Love, wast nigh! His liquid music from the brink

(ARNOLD'S MARCH TO CANADA, 1775) I The trumpet, with a giant sound,

I Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery,

I "Dying of hunger and sorrow: I die for my youth I fear!"

Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, How in the soft June days forever done You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;

At morn his bark like a bird Slips lightly oceanward - Sail feathering smooth o'er the bay

FEBRUARY 6, 1881 Come not again! I dwell with you Above the realm of frost and dew,

Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep. Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems,

Dear love, let this my song fly to you: Perchance forget it came from me. It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;

Some fairy spirit with his wand, I think, has hovered o'er the dell, And spread this film upon the pond,

Dost thou remember, Love, those hours Shot o'er with random rainy showers, When the bold sun would woo coy May?

Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, My summer and my winter, spring and fall; For Nature left on thee a touch of all

Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, My Summer and my Winter, Spring and Fall; For Nature left on thee a touch of all

[Read before the Sons of the Revolution, New-York, February 22, 1887] Sons of the youth and the truth of the nation, Ye that are met to remember the man

(A REPLY) Yes, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird. Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard:

A tangled orchard round the farm-house spreads, Wherein it stands home-like, but desolate, 'Midst crowded and uneven-statured sheds,

Ethereal, faint that music rang, As, with the bosom of the breeze, It rose and fell and murmuring sang

Hark to that faint, ethereal twang That from the bosom of the breeze Has caught its rise and fall: there rang

Glimmers gray the leafless thicket Close beside my garden gate, Where, so light, from post to picket

Glimmers gray the leafless thicket Close beside my garden gate, Where, so light, from post to picket

"Go," said the star to its light: "Follow your fathomless flight! Into the dreams of space

A penciled shade the sky doth sweep, And transient glooms creep in to sleep Amid the orchard;

The sunshine of thine eyes, (O still, celestial beam!) Whatever it touches it fills

The sunshine of thine eyes, (Oh still, celestial beam!) Whatever it touches it fills

"How shall we honor the man who creates?" Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet Antar; - "Who unto the truth flings open our gates,

I warn, like the one drop of rain On your face, ere the storm; Or tremble in whispered refrain

Seaward, at morn, my doves flew free; At eve they circled back to me. The first was Faith; the second, Hope;

At night, with shaded eyes, the summer moon In tender meditation downward glances At the dark earth, far-set in dim expanses,

When, looking deeply in thy face, I catch the undergleam of grace That grows beneath the outward glance,

I. Lips that are met in love's Devotion sweet,

(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES) Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth, Affinity between two forms of truth! -