CHARLES ANDERSON DANA.-MRS. HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL. 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. 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; TO R. B. Belovéd friend! they say that thou art dead, 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, 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, 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 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; My nightly prayer was said; 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- 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 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 The God of Jacob calls to me Are scattered in dismay: 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. |