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CHARLES ANDERSON DANA.-MRS. HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL.

No grief can touch thy sweet and spiritual smile;
No pain is keen enough that it has power
Over thy childlike love, that all the while
Upon the cold earth builds its heavenly bower;—
And thus with thee bright angels make their dwell-
ing,

Bringing thee stores of strength when no man knoweth;

The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling,
That forth through each least thing in Nature goeth,
In thee, oh, truest hero, deeper floweth ;-
With joy I bathe, and many souls beside
Feel a new life in the celestial tide.

VIA SACRA.

Slowly along the crowded street I go,
Marking with reverent look each passer's face,
Seeking, and not in vain, in each to trace
That primal soul whereof he is the show.
For here still move, by many eyes unseen,
The blessed gods that erst Olympus kept;
Through every guise these lofty forms serene
Declare the all-holding Life hath never slept;
But known each thrill that in man's heart hath been,
And every tear that his sad eyes have wept :
Alas for us! the heavenly visitants,---

We greet them still as most unwelcome guests,

Mrs. Harriet Winslow Sewall.

AMERICAN.

757

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 hymn?

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

Thon no ray of light and joy caust 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;
But oh! what is it to imperial Jove
That this poor world refuses all his love!

TO R. B.

Belovéd friend! they say that thou art dead,
Nor shall our asking eyes behold thee more,
Save in the company of the fair and dread,
Along that radiant and immortal shore,
Whither thy face was turned for evermore.
Thou wert a pilgrim toward the True and Real,
Never forgetful of that infinite goal;
Salient, electrical, thy weariless soul,
To every faintest vision always leal,
Even 'mid these phantoms made its world ideal.
And so thou hast a most perennial fame,
Though from the earth thy name should perish quite :
When the dear sun sinks golden whence he came,
The gloom, else cheerless, hath not lost his light;
So in our lives impulses born of thine,
Like fireside stars across the night shall shine.

No foud 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,
Not by works that win thee world renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,
Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.

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,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine,
But with fervent love if thon adorest,
Thou art wealthier,-all the world is thine.

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The Power that knows our needs before we call, I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of 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
Awaits us in maternal care and love;
Its wondrous divination, intuition,

Are, all recorded miracles, above:

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;

Holding us with the strongest, tenderest thrall; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg

And farther on a band of sisters, brothers,

And finally the Friend above all others, The most especial Providence of all!

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.

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;
Alone in my lowly bed,
Before I laid me down to rest,

My nightly prayer was said;
And naught my spirit feareth,
In darkness or by day:
Speak, for thy servant heareth,
And heareth to obey.

JULIA WARD HOWE.-THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

759

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,

Teaching my heart to say-
Speak, for thy servant heareth,
And heareth to obey."

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.

Thou 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
My lonely place of rest;
How sacred now shall be to me

The spot which Thou hast blessed! If aught of evil should draw nigh

To bring me shame and fear, My steadfast soul shall make reply, "Depart, for God is near!"

I bless thee that thon 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;
But in the hour of darkness first

Thou speakest unto me.

And now the night appeareth
More beautiful than day:
Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth,
And heareth to obey.

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,
Once I prayed Saint Dominick;
He was holy, sure, and wise ;—
Was't not he that did devise
Auto-da-fé's and rosaries?-
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.

Next, in pleasant Normandie,

I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral, where

All the ancient kings repose;
But how I was swindled there,

At the "Golden Fleece," he knows!

In my wanderings, vague and various,
Reaching Naples, as I lay
Watching Vesuvius from the bay,

I besought Saint Januarius.
But I was a fool to try him;
Naught I said could liquefy him;
And I swear he did me wrong,
Keeping me shut up so long

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Pour on our stumbling studies Inspiration's light: Which the fires of the sun come tempered through.

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