No grief can touch thy sweet and spiritual smile; Bringing thee stores of strength when no man knoweth ; The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling, VIA SACRA. Slowly along the crowded street I go, We greet them still as most unwelcome guests, Mrs. Harriet Winslow Sewall. AMERICAN. Miss Winslow was born in Portland, Me., June 30th, 1819. She is of Quaker extraction. She was married in 1848 to Charles List, of Philadelphia; and some years after his death to Samuel E. Sewall, of Boston. Her summer residence is at Melrose, Mass. In a letter to a friend (1880) she says: "I have written little, and published almost nothing; and most of my verses are of a local or personal nature that would not interest the public." But will the public agree to that after reading her "Why thus Longing?" WHY THUS LONGING? Why thus longing, thus forever sighing For the far-off, unattained, and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying, Offers up its low, perpetual hymu? Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still, Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe; Answering their smile with hateful looks askance, | If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, Their sacred speech with foolish, bitter jests; TO R. B. Belovéd friend! they say that thou art dead, Even 'mid these phantoms made its world ideal. No fond voices answer to thine own, If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten By daily sympathy and gentle tone. Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Dost thou revel in the rosy morning When all nature hails the Lord of light, And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning, Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height? Other hands may grasp the field and forest, Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, SPECIAL PROVIDENCES. When gathering clouds are darkly round us lowering, "We are not worth its heed,"- —we say, despairing; "We are but puppets of relentless law;" Before a Power, crushing and uncaring, We bow with reverent, unloving awe. Ungrateful and presumptuous we, deriding The Power that knows our needs before we call, And in advance of them, has been providing The helping hands to aid us when we fall! Before we see the light this kind provision Are, all recorded miracles, above: And farther on a band of sisters, brothers, And finally the Friend above all others, Julia Ward Howe. AMERICAN. Mrs. Howe, a daughter of Samuel Ward, a well-known banker, was born in the city of New York in 1819. She had the advantage of a thorough education, and in 1843 was married to Samuel G. Howe, the well-known philanthropist of Boston. In 1854 she published "Passion Flowers," a volume of poems; and in 1856 "Words for the Hour." In 1866 appeared her "Later Lyrics," containing her most notable poem, "The Battle Hymn." This seems to have been suggested by one of those improvised effusions, got up, by nobody knows whom, on stirring occasions, and in this case by some one in a company of Boston militia, early in the Civil War. It began: "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave," which, being repeated three times, was followed by "His soul is marching on." Then came the refrain, "Glory, glory, hallelujah!" This being sung to a spirited melody, the origin of which is also unknown, produced a memorable effect. Mrs. Howe's poem is a refinement on this rough production. She has published several volumes of travels; and is active in all movements for the improvement of the condition of women. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;" Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on. He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg ment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. SPEAK, FOR THY SERVANT HEARETH. Speak, for thy servant heareth; My nightly prayer was said; I've stood before thine altar, A child before thy might; No breath within thy temple stirred The dim and cloudy light; And still I knew that thou wast there, O God, my flesh may tremble When thou speakest to my soul; But it cannot shun thy presence blessed, Nor shrink from thy control. A joy my spirit cheereth That cannot pass away: Speak, for thy servant heareth, And heareth to obey. Thon biddest me to utter Words that I scarce may speak, And mighty things are laid on me, A helpless one, and weak: Darkly thy truth declareth Its purpose and its way: Speak, for thy servant heareth, And heareth to obey. And shouldst Thou be a stranger To that which Thou hast made? Oh! ever be about my path, And hover near my bed. Lead me in every step I take, Teach me each word I say: Speak, for thy servant heareth, And heareth to obey. How hath thy glory lighted The spot which Thou hast blessed! I bless thee that thou speakest Thus to an humble child; The God of Jacob calls to me In gentle tones and mild; Thine enemies before thy face Are scattered in dismay: Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, And heareth to obey. I've stood before thee all my days Have ministered to thee; Thou speakest unto me. And now the night appeareth Thomas William Parsons. AMERICAN. Parsons (1819-18..) was born in Boston, Mass., and educated at the Latin School. He visited Italy with his father in 1836, and accomplished himself in the Italian language. He published in Boston, in 1865, a translation of seventeen cantos of the "Inferno" of Dante; and to these he has since made additions. In 1854 he published a collection of his poems. His translations are masterly, and many of his original lyrics show that his poetical vein is of a quality rich and rare. SAINT PERAY. When to any saint I pray, It shall be to Saint Peray. He alone, of all the brood, Ever did me any good: Many I have tried that are Humbugs in the calendar. On the Atlantic, faint and sick, Next, in pleasant Normandie, I made a prayer to Saint Denis, All the ancient kings repose; At the "Golden Fleece," he knows! In my wanderings, vague and various, I besought Saint Januarius. Turn comforts into awful prophets to my guilt! Close to thy garden-travail let me wake and weep! Hew out for thy dear Church a Future without weakness, Quarried from thine eternal Order, Beauty, Might! For while the Resurrection waved its sigus august, less sky, My weak feet clung enamored to the parching dust, And the vain sand's poor pebbles lured my roving eye. By loneliness or hunger turn and re-create me! Ordain whatever masters in thy saving school. Let the whole prosperous host of Fashion's flatterers hate me, So Thou wilt henceforth bless me with thy gracious rule. I pray not to be saved, Ascended Lord, from sorrow: Redeem me only from my foud and mean self-love. Let each long night of wrestling bring a mourning morrow, [above! If thus my heart ascend and dwell with Thee Vales of Repentance mount to hills of high Desire; Seven times seven suffering years gain the Sab batic Rest; Earth's fickle, cruel lap, alternate frost and fire, Tempers beloved disciples for the Master's breast. Our work lies wide; men ache and doubt and die; Thy Ark Shakes in our hands; Reason and Faith, God's son And daughter, fight their futile battle in the dark. Our sluggish eyelids slumber with our task half done. Oh, bleeding Priest of silent, sad Gethsemané,— That second Eden where upsprings the Healing Vine, Press from our careless foreheads drops of sweat for Thee! Fill us with sacrificial love for souls, like Thine. Thou who didst promise cheer along with tribulation, Hold up our trust and keep it firm by much enduring; Feed fainting hearts with patient hopes of thy salvation: [alluring. Make glorious service, more than luxury's bed, Hallow our wit with prayer; our mastery steep in meekness; and powers, Raise Thou full praises from its farthest corners dim; Pour down, oh steadfast Sun, thy beams on all its towers! Roll through its world-wide space Faith's Eucharistic Hymn! O Way for all that live, win us by pain and loss! Fill all our years with toil,-and comfort with Thy rod! Through thy ascension cloud, beyond the Cross, Looms on our sight, in peace, the City of our God! Thomas Whytehead. Whytehead was a fellow of St. John's College, England, and was second-class medallist in 1837. He died early in Australia, whither he had gone as a missionary. He twice obtained the University prize for English verse; and was the author of several short poems, printed for private circulation only. He was born about the year 1819. Of the following remarkable poem from his pen there have been several differing versions. THE SECOND DAY OF CREATION. This world I deem But a beautiful dream Of shadows that are not what they seem; When visions rise, Giving dim surmise Of the things that shall meet our waking eyes. Arm of the Lord! Creating Word! Whose glory the silent skies record, Where stands Thy name In scrolls of flame On the firmament's high-shadowing frame, I gaze o'erhead Where Thy hand hath spread For the waters of Heaven that crystal bed, And stored the dew In its deeps of blue Pour on our stumbling studies Inspiration's light: Which the fires of the sun come tempered through. |