have passed from the world of men, but the fires they kindled yet burn
with fadeless light.

To us who have dwelt in the same environment and found beauty in the
same scenes that inspired them to eloquent expression of the thoughts,
the loves, the hopes, and the aspirations which were our own as well
as theirs, these writers of our South are living still and will live
through the long procession of the years. In the garden of our lives
they planted the flowers of poesy, of fable, and of romance. With the
changes of the years those flowers may have passed into the realm of
the old-fashioned, like the blossoms in Grandmother's garden, but are
there any sweeter or more royally blooming than these?

The lustre of our gifted ones is not dimmed by the passage of time,
but in the rush of new books upon the world the readers of to-day lose
sight of the volumes which wove threads of gold into the joys and
sorrows of the generation now travelling the downward slope of life.
Their starry radiance is sometimes lost to view in the electric flash
of the present day. If these pages can in any slight way aid in
keeping their memory bright they will have reached their highest aim.

The poets of Dixie in war days tended the flames that glowed upon the
altar of patriotism. Their lives were given to their country as truly
as if their blood had crimsoned the sod of hard-fought fields. They
gave of their best to our cause. Their bugle notes echo through the
years, and the mournful tones of the dirges they sang over the grave
of our dreams yet thrill our hearts. Before our eyes "The Conquered
Banner" sorrowfully droops on its staff and "The Sword of Lee" flashes
in the lines of our Poet-Priest.