Theodore O'Hara, who wrote the "Bivouac of the Dead," died in Georgia, although he lived most of his life in Kentucky, and is buried in "the Blue-Grass State." Henry Lynden Flash, one of the best known of all the war-poets, also lived in Georgia for some time. And even the great Henry Timrod of South Carolina received his collegiate education at the State University at Athens. Harry Stillwell Edwards, whose name is now more closely identified with successful prose, has written some excellent verse; and Joel Chandler Harris, whose genius is embalmed in the dialect of "Uncle Remus," has also flirted with the Muses. Both Mr. Edwards and Mr. Harris are native Georgians. Former Chief Justice Logan E. Bleckley must also be honorably enrolled among the Georgia poets. Robert Loveman has written some charming verselets for the magazines and periodicals; but he seldom attempts anything lengthy, preferring rather to polish sparkles than to pound wire. Samuel W. Small, one of the most versatile of Southern intellects, being an orator, evangelist and editor, has also written some excellent verses. Charles J. Bayne, Montgomery M. Folsom and Lucius Perry Hills have also written for many admiring. readers. Nor will the list be complete without including Judge Robert Falligant, Judge R. M. Charlton, Professor William Henry Waddell, Dr. A. A. Means, William T. Dumas, P. L. Wade, W. D. Upshaw and John W. Humphreys. But Georgia has also produced some gifted female poets: Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, the brilliant novelist, has written some fine verse. The famous war-poem entitled "Somebody's Darling," was written by Marie LaCoste, of Savannah. Mrs. J. K. Ohl, Mrs. Mell R. Colquitt and Miss Minnie Quinn have done brilliant work; and Maria Louise Eve must also be included among the successful writers of verse. Some of the best sonnets which ever appeared in Georgia came from the pen of Orelia Key Bell, whose relative, Francis Scott Key, wrote the "Star-Spangled Banner"; but Miss Bell ceased to write years ago. Another gifted young Georgia woman who has not written much of late, but whose childhood poems suggested the bud which cradled another Felicia Hemans, is Julia Riordan. Hundreds of names could be added to this list; but enough have already been cited to illustrate sufficiently the title of this sketch: "Georgia's Poems and Poets." With all due reverence for the respected shades of the great New England poets, it may be stoutly affirmed that the genius of verse has never blazed more purely around the elms of Cambridge than along the magnolia beaches and among the foothills of sunny Georgia; and if Longfellow and Lowell and Holmes are to-day more widely heralded throughout the world of letters it is not because the inspiration under which they sang was any purer, nor because the wings on which they soared were any more divinely tipped with fire celestial. But it can not be denied that the South has been most wofully indifferent to the claims of literature; and the only explanation which can be advanced by her apologists is that she has never sought to cultivate what has fairly leaped unbidden from her lap, in the richest colors of the carnival. Tradition and environment have combined to make her the very home of romance. The blood which courses her veins has come from the Cavaliers of Eng land and the Troubadours of France. She is as rich in sentiment as she is in sunshine; as full of poetry as of perfume. And the flowers of fancy have been as indigenous to her clime as the riotous honeysuckle on her hillside bowers or the spendthrift violet in her woodland solitudes. She has produced a Petrarch for every Laura and a Burns for every Highland Mary. But so prodigal has been her dowry of genius that she has treated her treasures with neglect. She has carelessly allowed to perish underneath her feet many an uncut diamond, which New England would have gladly polished and proudly lifted to her very crown of crowns. She has heedlessly permitted to die upon the air many an anthem which old England would have nurtured on her breast until it journeyed with Tennyson's immortal Brook. She has sentenced to obscurity many a name which Rome would have ennobled, and left undecorated many a brow which Athens would have wreathed. So many of her sons and daughters have picnicked with the Muses, and poetry has been so native to her soil, that she has never stopped to realize her riches and has simply left her gold ungarnered in her harvest-fields. Even her poet-princes have almost starved while they were starring, with little assistance from her purse, and with little encouragement from her applause. Thomas Nelson Page puts the sheer truth tersely when he says that "the harpers were at the feast but no one called for the song." And to-day, though rousing somewhat from her lethargy of cold indifference to her gifted children, she is making her tardy amends to prose, when poetry stands much more in need of her apologies. Is it any wonder that Hayne and Ticknor and Timrod and Lanier have been so slow in landing on the foothills of Fame, while Longfellow, like the youth who bore the flag "Excelsior,” has long since reached the Alpine heights? Surely it is time for the South to realize what she possesses within her own borders; for as well might Arabia send to Lapland for her perfumes, while breathing an air pungent with the aroma of her own spices. Most of the world's great monuments of art have been lifted in the warmer latitudes. Homer's "Iliad," Dante's "Paradiso," Boccaccio's "Decameron," Virgil's “Æneid,” Cellini's "Perseus," Michaelangelo's "Last Judgment," Raphael's "Transfiguration," Greece's temples, Egypt's pyramids and David's Psalms-these have all bloomed in the ardent airs which sweep the harp-strung shores of the Mediterranean. The warm sunlight wooes the soul of sentiment. But shall the Old World have all the honor? What the genius of song has already done for the Southern climes of Europe may not the genius of song yet do for the Southern climes of North America, where Nature has long since lit her fairest lamp and now pleads lovingly with Rhyme and Music to help her winnow back the long lost airs of Eden? APPENDIX. SONG OF THE GEORGIAN. Nor Cavalier nor Puritan Singly within his rich veins ran; But the Moravian's innocence, Which like to Love, is ever young), Alight with proudly glowing fires These were the Georgian's mighty sires! These still to him their force impart. Tempted of poverty, their hands Wrenched from no hapless Chief his lands That session of the soil obtained, By honorable treaty won, Left no distressful tribe undone, No blood its wholesome annals stained. And when the red'ning mist of death On Tomochichi's weary eyes Fell thickly, he, with quiet breath, Besought the grave his soul would prize— "Bury me," said the dying king, "Among my white friends where the waves Savannah's feet forever laves, |