"Ah, see," she says, "our shadows as they lengthen o'er the waves; Now Memory sits upon the sward, the spring-flowers fall like snow, And what she thinks, or what she dreams, may mortals never know; But close she clasps the hand of Spring, lest she the earth forsake, And seems to say most pleadingly, "Oh, keep me still awake!" THE MISS NELLY MARSHALL. THE subject of this sketch is the daughter of the distinguished General Humphrey Marshall, of Kentucky, celebrated in the annals of the South as a oldier and a statesman. She was born in Louisville, Kentucky, in the year 1847. From her earliest childhood, Miss Marshall's intellectual development was remarkable, and her first compositions, though, as was natural, abounding in the crudities that mark the early efforts of all young writers, foretold that mental power and strength which have since won for her so many warm admirers and true friends. But those abilities which, in another, would have been carefully and tenderly nurtured, were, in her, subjected to the pruning-knife of opposition, and hence her talent may be said to have grown like the prairie-rose, climbing and clinging and blossoming at its own sweet will. Reared in the strictest seclusion, and allowed only the freest communion with Nature, she has grown into womanhood with the trusting confidence of childhood in her heart and beautifying her character. She is described as petite in stature, delicately proportioned, and with large gray eyes and wavy light-brown hair. Miss Marshall is perhaps one of the most popular writers in the South and West, although, as yet, her intellectual power is, as it were, undeveloped. Her friends claim and expect more marked manifestations of talent than she has yet given, and, judging by what this young lady has already accomplished, we think we may safely assert that they will not be disappointed. The circumstances that led Miss Marshall to abandon the retirement in which she had hitherto lived, were very sad. The war, which brought devastation and desolation to so many homes in Kentucky, passed by "Beechland" with an unsparing hand. Unexpected trials, sickness, death, adversity, assailed that once merry household; and as a member of the shadowed and grief-stricken circle, Miss Marshall was compelled to resort to her pen, to stand in the breach between those most dear to her and misfortune. She is now pursuing the profession of literature in New York, where she lives in strict retirement. Miss Marshall recently published a novel, which was successful, entitled "As by Fire," published in New York by Geo. S. Wilcox.* QUESTIONS. Why are the days so drearily long? Why seems each duty a terrible task? Why have my red lips hushed their glad song? Why are the sunbeams ghastly and dim? Was I predestined a child of despair? Will he forever be haughty and cold? Has the bright past no brightness for him? If this dark knowledge of misery be mine; If the hope of his truth, because brightest, be fleetest: And of all Love's embraces thine own shall be sweetest! * Prose selections from Miss Marshall's portfolio were twice lost by mail. THE "FIRST" KISS. Go, perfumed breath of summer flowers; Say, I've been kissed!-so sweetly kissed, I heard the beating of his heart! His arm it clasped me closely - Would nestle in its nest! The white lids drooped low o'er his eyes, When, like a flash, he bent his head, Upon my own his glowing lips In fervor warm he pressed; Go, perfumed breath of summer flowers; ALDER-BOUGHS. Shake down, oh, shake down your blossoms of snow, Drift them all over these white sands below, Tears that must flow like a wide gulf between Days that are dead as the dead in their graves; Days whose sweet beauty and perfume have passed, Like the white foam-fret on Ocean's green waves, Buoyant and lovely, but too frail to last. And as we bend o'er the cold forms of those Who have gone early to Death's sombre sleep, So bend low, oh, bend low! alder-boughs green, Till I can catch at your blossoms of snow; Nodding like hearse-plumes so soft in the wind Over these smooth stretching white sands below! Never again while I live, alder-boughs, Will I your snow-blooms and verdant leaves see; But when I lie dead and cold in my grave, I pray God they'll blossom and fade over me! MY DEAD. June roses may come, And June roses may go, By driftings of snow; And the sunbeams may fade, And birds may abandon The nests they have made; And green leaves may burst bud But nothing can give me My dead back again. |