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O blue of heaven, and bluer sea,
And green of wave, and gold of sky, And white of sand that stretches by, Toward east and west away from me!
O shell-strewn shore, that silent hears
THE LOST BATTLE.
TO HIS heart it struck such terror
It struck his heart like the frost-wind
He drew his sword in the sunlight,
With shouts they heard afar.
They galloped swiftly toward him,
WHEN I shall go
Into the narrow home that leaves
No room for the wringing of the hands and
And feel the pressing of the walls which bear The heavy sod upon my heart that grieves (As the weird earth rolls on),
Then I shall know
What is the power of destiny. But still,
And ruinous knowledge of my fate I shun.
A shining, mellowing, rapture-giving sun; So in the deed of breathing joy's warm breath,
Fain to succeed,
I, too, in colorless longings, hope till death.
An angel spoke with me, and, lo! he hoarded
A wasted grief was never yet recorded.
Unto my soul, whose outcry, in disgrace, Changed to low music, leading to the place Where, though well armed, with futile end awarded, My past lay dead. "Wars are of earth!" he cried;
"Endurance only breathes immortal air. Courage eternal, by a world defied,
Still wears the front of patience, smooth and
Are wars so futile, and is courage peace?
THE sun is lying on the garden wall,
The full red rose is sweetening all the air, The day is happier than a dream most fair; The evening weaves afar a wide-spread pall,
And, lo! sun, day and rose no longer there!
I have a lover, now my life is young,
I have a love to keep this many a day; My heart will hold it when my life is gray, My love will last although my heart be wrung. My life, my heart, my love shall fade away!
O lover loved, the day has only gone!
In death or life, our love can only go;
We follow memory when life is done:
No wave is lost in all the tides that flow.
My graveyard holds no once-loved human forms,
I visit every day the shadowy grove;
I bury there my outraged tender thought;
And my contempt, where I had tried to love.
ADELAIDE DAY ROLLSTON.
WITHIN the next thirty years the South will produce some striking developments in the world of letters. The industrial revolution now taking place in the Southern and Middle States, the opening up of their resources, the establishment of countless manufactories will create a wider and more appreciative audience; culture will become more general, different modes of thinking will prevail with different conditions, and the New South will leap from her scabbard bright as a scimitar, and as true and keen.
When that day arrives, the names of those who have prayed for it and toiled for it-toiled for it even without hope, it may be-can hardly fail to be remembered. Then, the songs of her poetsher Timrods, Laniers, Haynes-will not be sung to deaf ears; nor will hunger be the yoke-fellow of her men of letters, nor the gift of poesy a reproach in the mouth of the political charlatan. In that day not without honor will be Adelaide Day Rollston.
Mrs. Rollston was born near Paducah, McCracken county, in the heart of that portion of Lower Kentucky which is now attracting such widespread attention on account of its mineral resources. Her earlier years were spent in the country, in the midst of a landscape of quiet, pastoral beauty-low reaching meadows and far-off terraced hills. Her father was a physician of good standing. At the age of twelve her talent for writing verse began to manifest itself in brief poems published in the local press. Later on, several appeared in the now defunct Saturday Star-Journal, of New York. She was educated at St. Mary's Academy, in Paducah, to which city her parents had removed about her twelfth year. After the conclusion of her school-life she continued her contributions to the neighboring press, and frequently verses over her name appeared in the CourierJournal, of Louisville. They attracted, however, little or no attention until she found a friend and helper in the veteran of the Kentucky press, Col. H. M. McCarty, who blamed when necessary, and gave praise when praise was due. Still, her path upwards has been one of stern struggle. "I could not explain to you, or any one else," says she, "just what difficulties I have had to fight against."
Four years ago she began contributing to The Current, established in Chicago, by Edgar L. Wakeman, and since then has obtained wide recognition as a contributor to Once a Week, Youth's Companion, Godey's Lady's Book and other eastern periodicals of high standing. She has also written several novelettes.
Personally, Mrs. Rollston is a small, quiet woman, with little or no vanity, yet possessing a great deal of ambition, force and earnestness. Having a strong individualism, the real woman shows in her work-direct, serious, capable, with an equal eye to the truth and the beauty of life, and their fashioning into musical speech.
It is, perhaps, one of the strongest indications of true genius that its possessor instinctively reproduces that landscape and its incidents by which he is environed. The picturesque scenery of southwest Kentucky stands out in bold relief in Mrs. Rollston's poetry. Her verse is full of graphic touches and natural color. Here are low, pastoral valleys, quiet glades, gently sloping hills, wide pastures with herds grazing throat-deep upon them, bits of woodland through which the oriole wheels and flashes like a shuttle of flame, quiet meadows, dew-brimmed, elder-rimmed, over which all day the chewink sings his song of summer, and on the hills beyond gleam long, snug farm-houses, with drowsy, shadowy yards, and within their snowwhite walls human love and joy and sorrow have an abiding-place. C. J. O'M.
AT THE LAST.
LEAN from thy wall of mist, O Roseleaf frail,
And lay thy white, despairing face to mine; Let thy sad eyes, like stars that have grown pale, With all the old-time love and gladness shine; Come to me now, before the twilight gray,
Darkens the reddening orchard's splendid sheen; Lay thy poor wasted hand in mine, and say: "We will forget the years that lie between."
Sweetheart, across the dreary waste of years
O Roseleaf, fading Roseleaf, long ago,
It haunts me with its strange and mournful grace.
O sweet south-wind, blow soft and low to-night,
IF I HAD KNOWN.
SHE lay with lilies on her pulseless breast, Dim, woodland lilies wet with silver dew.
"Dear heart," he said, "in life she loved them best! For her sweet sake the fragrant buds were blown, For her in April-haunted nooks they grew
Oh, love, if I had known!
"If I had known when yesterday we walked,
"Last year, when April woods were all aglow,