George Parsons Lathrop

George Parsons Lathrop (August 25, 1851 – April 19, 1898) was an American poet, novelist, and editor. He was closely associated with the literary world of New England and was a prominent figure in the late 19th century. Lathrop was also known for his marriage to Rose Hawthorne, the daughter of famed novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, and for his efforts in editing and preserving Hawthorne's works. His contributions spanned various literary forms including poetry and prose.

August 25, 1851

April 19, 1898

English

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A Face In The Street.

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,
    Yet breathing of a purer native air; -
They who whilom, cursed vultures, sought a share
    Of thy dead womanhood, their greed unjust
    Have satisfied, have stripped and left thee bare.
    Still, like a leaf warped by the autumn gust,
And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st in flame
    And perfume all thy hollow-eyed decay,
Feigning on those gray cheeks the blush that Shame
    Took with her when she fled long since away.
    Ah God! rain fire upon this foul-souled city
    That gives such death, and spares its men, - for pity!

George Parsons Lathrop

A Rune Of The Rain

O many-toned rain!
O myriad sweet voices of the rain!
How welcome is its delicate overture
At evening, when the moist and glowing west
Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest.

At first it would allure
The earth to kinder mood,
With dainty flattering
Of soft, sweet pattering:
Faintly now you hear the tramp
Of the fine drops, falling damp
On the dry, sun-seasoned ground
And the thirsty leaves, resound.
But anon, imbued
With a sudden, bounding access
Of passion, it relaxes
All timider persuasion.
And, with nor pretext nor occasion,
Its wooing redoubles;
And pounds the ground, and bubbles
In sputtering spray,
Flinging itself in a fury
Of flashing white away;
Till the dusty road,
Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed;...

George Parsons Lathrop

A Rune Of The Rain.

I.

O many-toned rain!
O myriad sweet voices of the rain!
How welcome is its delicate overture
At evening, when the glowing-moistur'd west
Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest!

At first it would allure
The earth to kinder mood,
With dainty flattering
Of soft, sweet pattering:
Faintly now you hear the tramp
Of the fine drops falling damp
On the dry, sun-seasoned ground
And the thirsty leaves around.
But anon, imbued
With a sudden, bounding access
Of passion, it relaxes
All timider persuasion,
And, with nor pretext nor occasion,
Its wooing redoubles;
And pounds the ground, and bubbles
In sputtering spray,
Flinging itself in a fury
Of flashing white away;
Till the dusty road
Flings a perfume da...

George Parsons Lathrop

A Song Long Ago.

Through the pauses of thy fervid singing
        Fell crystal sound
That thy fingers from the keys were flinging
        Lightly around:
I felt the vine-like harmonies close clinging
        About my soul;
And to my eyes, as fruit of their sweet bringing,
        The full tear stole!

George Parsons Lathrop

A Strong City

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.


Beauty and splendor were on every hand:
Yet strangely crawled dark shadows down the lanes,
Twisting across the fields, like dragon-shapes
That smote the air with blackness, and devoured
The life of light, and choked the smiling world
Till it grew livid with a sudden age -
The death of hope.

        O squandered happiness;
Vain dust of misery powdering life's fresh flower!
The sky was holy, but the earth was not.

Men ruled, but ruled in vain; since wretch...

George Parsons Lathrop

An April Aria.

When the mornings dankly fall
    With a dim forethought of rain,
And the robins richly call
To their mates mercurial,
    And the tree-boughs creak and strain
    In the wind;
When the river's rough with foam,
    And the new-made clearings smoke,
And the clouds that go and come
Shine and darken frolicsome,
    And the frogs at evening croak
    Undefined
Mysteries of monotone,
    And by melting beds of snow
Wind-flowers blossom all alone;
    Then I know
That the bitter winter's dead.
    Over his head
The damp sod breaks so mellow, -
Its mosses tipped with points of yellow, -
    I cannot but be glad;
Yet this sweet mood will borrow
Something of a sweeter sorrow,
    To touch and turn me sad.

George Parsons Lathrop

Arise, American!

The soul of a nation awaking, -
High visions of daybreak, - I saw;
A people renewed; the forsaking
    Of sin, and the worship of law.

Sing, pine-tree; shout, to the hoarser
Response of the jubilant sea!
Rush, river, foam-flecked like a courser;
    Warn all who are honest and free!

Our birth-star beckons to trial
The faith of the far-fled years,
Ere scorn was our share, and denial,
    Or laughter for patriots' tears.

And Faith shall come forth the finer,
From trampled thickets of fire,
And the orient open diviner
    Before her, the heaven rise higher.

O deep, sweet eyes, but severer
Than steel! See you yet, where he comes -
Our hero? Bend your glance nearer;
Speak, Faith! For, as wakening drums,

Your voice s...

George Parsons Lathrop

Arise, American!

The soul of a nation awaking, -
    High visions of daybreak I saw,
And the stir of a state, the forsaking
    Of sin, and the worship of law.

O pine-tree, shout! And hoarser
    Rush, river, unto the sea,
Foam-fettered and sun-flushed, a courser
    That feels the prairie, free!

Our birth-star beckons to trial
    All faith of the far-fled years,
Ere scorn was our share, and denial,
    Or laughter for patriot's tears.

And lo, Faith comes forth the finer
    From trampled thickets of fire,
And the orient opens diviner
    Before her; the heaven lifts higher.

O deep, sweet eyes, and severer
    Than steel! he knoweth who comes,
Thy hero: bend thine eyes nearer!
    Now wilder than battle-drums

Thy glance in his...

George Parsons Lathrop

At The Golden Gate

Before the golden gate she stands,
With drooping head, with idle hands
Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight
Of unseen woe. Too late, too late!
Those carved and fretted,
Starred, resetted
Panels shall not open ever
To her who seeks the perfect mate.

Only the tearless enter there:
Only the soul that, like a prayer,
No bolt can stay, no wall may bar,
Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar.
No door of cedar,
Alas, shall lead her
Unto the stream that shows forever
Love's face like some reflected star!

They say that golden barrier hides
A realm where deathless spring abides;
Where flowers shall fade not, and there floats
Thro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes -
'Mid dewy alleys
That gird the palace,
And fountain'd spray...

George Parsons Lathrop

Battle Days

I

Veteran memories rally to muster
Here at the call of the old battle days:
Cavalry clatter and cannon's hoarse bluster:
All the wild whirl of the fight's broken maze:
Clangor of bugle and flashing of sabre,
Smoke-stifled flags and the howl of the shell,
With earth for a rest place and death for a neighbor,
And dreams of a charge and the deep rebel yell.
Stern was our task in the field where the reaping
Spared the ripe harvest, but laid our men low:
Grim was the sorrow that held us from weeping:
Awful the rush of the strife's ebb and flow.
Swift came the silence - our enemy hiding
Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night:
Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding;
Hundreds on hundreds we caught in their flight!
Hard and incessant the danger a...

George Parsons Lathrop

Before The Snow

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare
Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves,
Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air.
Flutter away from the old forest's eaves.

Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill,
Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed,
My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still,
By thronging fancies wild and wistful led.

Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago
The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain!
How soon death settles on us, and the snow
Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain!

Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood
Of that which makes moods dear, - some shoot of spring
Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood
We walked in, - memory's rare environing.

And, though they die, ...

George Parsons Lathrop

Before The Snow.

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare
    Shatters the windy rain. A thousand leaves,
Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air,
    Flutter away from the old forest's eaves.

Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill,
    Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed,
My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still,
    By thronging fancies wild and wistful led.

Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago
    The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain!
How soon death settles on us, and the snow
    Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain!

Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood
    Of that which makes moods dear, - some shoot of spring
Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood
    We walked in, - memory's rare environing....

George Parsons Lathrop

Blackmouth, Of Colorado

"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.
Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use
If you'd called here earlier. His excuse
Always was, whenever folks would ask him
Where he hailed from, an' would tease an' task him; -
What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know."

That was truth. He came here long ago;
But, before that, he'd been born somewhere:
The conundrum started first, right there.
Little shaver - afore he knew his name
Or the place from whereabouts he came -
On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him.
Killed the old folks! But this cus' - they brought him
Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows.
So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows:...

George Parsons Lathrop

Bluebird's Greeting

Over the mossy walls,
Above the slumbering fields
Where yet the ground no fruitage yields,
Save as the sunlight falls
In dreams of harvest-yellow,
What voice remembered calls, -
So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow?

A darting, azure-feathered arrow
From some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleet
The bluebird, springing light and narrow,
Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet:

"Out of the South I wing,
Blown on the breath of Spring:
The little faltering song
That in my beak I bring
Some maiden shall catch and sing,
Filling it with the longing
And the blithe, unfettered thronging
Of her spirit's blossoming.

"Warbling along
In the sunny weather,
Float, my notes,
Through the sunny motes,
Falling light as a feather!

George Parsons Lathrop

Breakers

Far out at sea there has been a storm,
And still, as they roll their liquid acres,
High-heaped the billows lower and glisten.
The air is laden, moist, and warm
With the dying tempest's breath;
And, as I walk the lonely strand
With sea-weed strewn, my forehead fanned
By wet salt-winds, I watch the breakers,
Furious sporting, tossed and tumbling,
Shatter here with a dreadful rumbling -
Watch, and muse, and vainly listen
To the inarticulate mumbling
Of the hoary-headed deep;
For who may tell me what it saith,
Muttering, moaning as in sleep?

Slowly and heavily
Comes in the sea,
With memories of storm o'erfreighted,
With heaving heart and breath abated,
Pregnant with some mysterious, endless sorrow,
And seamed with many a gaping, sighing f...

George Parsons Lathrop

Bride Brook

Wide as the sky Time spreads his hand,
And blindly over us there blows
A swarm of years that fill the land,
Then fade, and are as fallen snows.

Behold, the flakes rush thick and fast;
Or are they years, that come between, -
When, peering back into the past,
I search the legendary scene?

Nay. Marshaled down the open coast,
Fearless of that low rampart's frown,
The winter's white-winged, footless host
Beleaguers ancient Saybrook town.

And when the settlers wake they stare
On woods half-buried, white and green,
A smothered world, an empty air:
Never had such deep drifts been seen!

But "Snow lies light upon my heart!
An thou," said merry Jonathan Rudd,
"Wilt wed me, winter shall depart,
And love like spring for us shall bud."...

George Parsons Lathrop

Burial-Song For Sumner.

        Now the last wreath of snow
        That melts, in mist exhales
White aspiration, and our deep-voiced gales
In chorus chant the measured march of spring,
        Whom griefs of life and death
        Are burdening!
        Slow, slow -
        With half-held breath -
Tread slow, O mourners, that all men may know
        What hero here lies low!

        O music, sweep
        From some deep cave, and bear
To us that gasp in this so meagre air
        Sweet ministerings
And consolations of contorted sound,
        With agonies profound
Of nobly warring and enduring chords
        That lie, close-bound,
Unstirred as yet 'neath thy wide, wakening wings;
So that our hearts break not in broken words.
        O music, that hast power...

George Parsons Lathrop

Chant For Autumn.

    Veiled in visionary haze,
    Behold, the ethereal autumn days
    Draw near again!
    In broad array,
    With a low, laborious hum
    These ministers of plenty come,
That seem to linger, while they steal away.

    O strange, sweet charm
    Of peaceful pain,
When yonder mountain's bended arm
Seems wafting o'er the harvest-plain
A message to the heart that grieves,
And round us, here, a sad-hued rain
Of leaves that loosen without number
Showering falls in yellow, umber,
Red, or russet, 'thwart the stream!
Now pale Sorrow shall encumber
All too soon these lands, I deem;
    Yet who at heart believes
    The autumn, a false friend,
    Can bring us fatal harm?
Ah, mist-hung avenues in dream
Not more uncertainly extend

George Parsons Lathrop

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