ously apt and
original descriptive compounds, are things which perpetually astonish
and delight her readers. Of recent specimens of Miss Jackson's darker
verse, "Finality," "The Song" and "Fallen Fences" deserve especial
praise. The horrible picture conjured up in the closing lines of the
first named piece is one well calculated to haunt the dreams of the
imaginative.

As we conclude this survey of rich and varied poetry, our dominant
impression aside from admiration is that of wonder at the tardiness with
which the author has been recognised by the non-amateur public. As yet
the name of Jackson is a comparative novelty to the literary world, a
thing explainable only by the reluctance of its possessor to adopt that
species of trumpeting which helps less modest and less genuine poets
into the glare of celebrity. But genius such as Miss Jackson's can not
remain forever hidden, however slight be her striving for fame; so that
we may reasonably expect the next few years to witness her establishment
among the leading literary figures, as one of the ablest, broadest and
most original of contemporary bards.

Ex Oblivione

WARD PHILLIPS

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began
to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let
fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victim's body, I loved the
irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I
had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and
enchanted woods.

Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and
sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.

Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream
under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight,
iridescent arbours and undying roses.

And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and
ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced
by a little gate of bronze.

Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I
pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and
twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to
trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples.
And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with
the little gate of bronze therein.

After a while, as the days of waking became less and less bearable