George Parsons Lathrop (25 August 1851, Honolulu, Hawaii – 19 April 1898, New York) was a poet, novelist and brother of Francis Lathrop. He was educated at New York and Dresden, Germany, when he returned to New York, and decided on a literary career. Going to England on a visit he was married in London, 11 September 1871, to Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, daughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne. In 1875 he became associate editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and remained in that position two years, leaving it for newspaper work in Boston and New York. His contributions to the periodical and daily Press were varied and voluminous. In 1883 he founded the American Copyright League, which finally secured the international copyright law.
He was also one of the founders of the Catholic Summer School of America. He and his wife were received into the Roman Catholic Church in New York in March 1891. After his death his widow, as Mother M. Alphonsa, organized a community of Dominican tertiaries, The Servants of Relief for Incurable Cancer Patients, who took charge of two cancer hospitals at New York. Among his published works are: Rose and Rose-tree (1875), poems; A Study of Hawthorne (1876); Afterglow (1876), a novel; Spanish Vistas (1883), a work on travel; Newport (1884), a novel; Dreams and Days (1892), poems; A Story of Courage (1894), centenary history of the Visitation Convent, Georgetown, D.C. He edited (1883) a complete, and the standard, edition of Hawthorne's works, and adapted The Scarlet Letter for Walter Damrosch's opera of that title, which was produced at New York in 1896.
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
...
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;
...
I
Victors, living, with laureled brow,
And you that sleep beneath the sward!
Your song was poured from cannon throats:
...
The sun had set;
The leaves with dew were wet:
Down fell a bloody dusk
On the woods, that second day of May,
...
The sea goes up; the sky comes down.
Oh, can you spy the ancient town,—
The granite hills so green and gray,
That rib the land behind the bay?
...