poured forth grave thoughts in eloquent and fervent language, but far more often delighted his readers by passages of irresistible humour and wit. His perception of the ludicrous was acute, and his jests and "cranks and wanton wiles" evinced the fulness of his powers and the benevolence of his feelings. The tales and essays which he found leisure to write for the New York "Knickerbocker Magazine,"--a monthly miscellany of high reputation edited by his only and twin brother, Mr. LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK-and especially a series of amusing papers A LAMENT. THERE is a voice I shall hear no more- They have gone like the blush of a summer morn, There were eyes, that late were lit up for me, I remember a brow, whose serene repose Alas! for the clod that is resting now O! once the summer with thee was bright; under the quaint title of "Ollapodiana," will long be remembered as affording abundant evidence of the qualities I have enumerated. In person Mr. CLARK was of the middle height, his form was erect and manly, and his countenance pleasing and expressive. In ordinary intercourse he was cheerful and animated, and he was studious to conform to the conventional usages of society. Warm-hearted, confiding, and generous, he was a true friend, and by those who knew him intimately he was much loved. Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall, MEMORY. "Tis sweet to remember! I would not forego "Tis sweet to remember! When friends are unkind, When their coldness and carelessness shadow the mind: Then, to draw back the veil which envelopes a land SONG OF MAY. THE spring's scented buds all around me are swelling: There are songs in the stream-there is health A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling, The desolate reign of old winter is broken The verdure is fresh upon every tree; Of love, O thou Spirit of Beauty, to thee! The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning, To rest on the promise and hope of the year: He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave; The young bird is out on his delicate pinion- A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion, Where no mildew the soft damask-rose cheek shall nourish, Where grief bears no longer the poisonous sting; It is thus that the hopes which to others are given I drink the bland airs that enliven the day; Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn; O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping, For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them. DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. YOUNG mother, he is gone! His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast; Float from his lips, to thine all fondly press'd; His was the morning hour, A bud, not yet a flower, He pours on the west-winds that fragrantly sigh; The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more; The fresh-swelling fountain-their magic is o'er! When I list to the stream, when I look on the flowers, They tell of the Past with so mournful a tone, That I call up the throngs of my long vanish'd hours, And sigh that their transports are over and gone. From the far-spreading earth and the limitless heaven There have vanish'd an eloquent glory and gleam; To my sad mind no more is the influence given, Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream; The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth; I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave; But the eye of my spirit in weariness sleepeth, Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave. Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended"Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow; But the newness and sweetness of being are ended: I feel not their love-kindling witchery now; The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping- There are those who have loved me debarr'd from the day; The green turf is bright where in peace they are And on wings of remembrance my soul is away. Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray; Never on earth again Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, And from thy yearning heart, And those kind eyes with many tears be dim; Yet, mourner, while the day To stream athwart the grief-discolour'd sky; "Tis from the better land! There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, As with the choiring cherubim he sings, Mother, thy child is bless'd: And miss'd, a sweet load from thy parent knee; SUMMER. THE Spring's gay promise melted into thee, Fair Summer! and thy gentle reign is here; The emerald robes are on each leafy tree; In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear; And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reignThey leap in music midst thy bright domain. The gales, that wander from the unclouded west, Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell, And the impure, unholy thoughts that cling To the sad bosom, torn with care and pride: I would soar upward, on unfetter'd wing, Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies, Where the high fount of Summer's brightness lies! THE EARLY DEAD. Ir it be sad to mark the bow'd with age In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom: A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky; O'er the broad world hope's smile incessant plays, And scenes of beauty win the enchanted eye: How sad to break the vision, and to fold Each lifeless form in earth's embracing mould ! Yet this is life! To mark from day to day, Youth, in the freshness of its morning prime, Pass, like the anthem of a breeze away, Sinking in waves of death ere chill'd by time! Ere yet dark years on the warm cheek had shed Autumnal mildew o'er the rose-like red! And yet what mourner, though the pensive eye Be dimly thoughtful in its burning tears, But should with rapture gaze upon the sky, [reers? Through whose far depths the spirit's wing caThere gleams eternal o'er their ways are flung, Who fade from earth while yet their years are young! THE SIGNS OF GOD. I MARK'D the Spring as she pass'd along, Where its proud heights soar'd in the air away; EUTHANASIA. METHINKS, when on the languid eye Or dream of seraphim, It were not sad to cast away This dull and cumbrous load of clay. Grow passionless and cold; That cheer'd the good of old; To clasp the faith which looks on high, It were not lonely thus to lie On that triumphant bed, It were not lonely thus to soar, If on the free, unfetter'd soul There rest no stains of gloom, Beyond the journeyings of the sun, AN INVITATION. "They that seek me early shall find me.” COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze, Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways; Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer-buds unfolding, [ing, Waken rich feelings in the careless breast, While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holdCome and secure interminable rest! Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover Will to the embraces of the worm have gone; Those who now love thee will have pass'd forever, Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee; Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever, As thy sick heart broods over years to be! Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwFades, like the crimson from a sunset sky; [ing Life hath but shadows, save a promise given, Which lights the future with a fadeless ray; O, touch the sceptre !-win a hope in Heaven: Come, turn thy spirit from the world away! Then will the crosses of this brief existence Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;— And, shining brightly in the forward distance, Will of thy patient race appear the goal: Home of the weary!-where, in peace reposing, The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss, Though o'er its dust the curtain'd grave is closing, Who would not, early, choose a lot like this? THE BURIAL-PLACE AT LAUREL HILL.* HERE the lamented dead in dust shall lie, Life's lingering languors o'er, its labours done, Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky, Admit the farewell radiance of the sun. Here the long concourse from the murmuring town, And in this hallow'd spot, where Nature showers Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour There is an emblem in this peaceful scene; Soon rainbow colours on the woods will fall, And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green, As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall. Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round, Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand. While the chain'd streams are silent as the ground, As Death had numb'd them with his icy hand. Yet, when the warm, soft winds shall rise in spring, Like struggling day beams o'er a blasted heath, The bird return'd shall poise her golden wing, And liberal Nature break the spell of Death. So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end, The blessed dead to endless youth shall rise, And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blend Its tone with anthems from the upper skies. There shall the good of earth be found at last, Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand; Where Love her crown attains-her trials pastAnd, fill'd with rapture, hails the "better land!" * Near the city of Philadelphia. A CONTRAST. It was the morning of a day in spring; The sun look'd gladness from the eastern sky; Birds were upon the trees and on the wing, And all the air was rich with melody; [high; The heaven-the calm, pure heaven, was bright on Earth laugh'd beneath in all its freshening green, The free blue streams sang as they wandered by, And many a sunny glade and flowery scene Gleam'd out, like thoughts of youth, life's troubled years between. The rose's breath upon the south wind came, Oft as its whisperings the young branches stirr'd, And flowers for which the poet hath no name; While, mid the blossoms of the grove, were heard The restless murmurs of the humming-bird; Waters were dancing in the mellow light; And joyous notes and many a cheerful word Stole on the charmed ear with such delight As waits on soft, sweet tones of music heard at night. The night-dews lay in the half-open'd flower, Like hopes that nestle in the youthful breast; And ruffled by the light airs of the hour, Awoke the pure lake from its glassy rest: Slow blending with the blue and distant west, Lay the dim woodlands, and the quiet gleam Of amber-clouds, like islands of the blestGlorious and bright, and changing like a dream, And lessening fast away beneath the intenser beam. Songs were amid the valleys far and wide, And on the green slopes and the mountains high: While, from the springing flowers on every side, Upon his painted wings, the butterfly Roam'd, a gay blossom of the sunny sky; The visible smile of joy was on the scene; "T was a bright vision, but too soon to die! Spring may not linger in her robes of greenAutumn, in storm and shade shall quench the summer sheen. I came again. 'Twas Autumn's stormy hour: The voice of winds was in the faded wood; The sere leaves, rustling in deserted bower, Were hurl'd in eddies to the moaning flood: Dark clouds were in the west-and red as blood, The sun shone through the hazy atmosphere; While torrent voices broke the solitude, Where, straying lonely, as with steps of fear, I mark'd the deepening gloom which shrouds the dying year. The ruffled lake heaved wildly; near the shore It bore the red leaves of the shaken tree, Shed in the violent north wind's restless roar, Emblems of man upon life's stormy sea! Pale autumn leaves! once to the breezes free They waved in spring and summer's golden prime; Now, even as clouds or dew how fast they flee; Weak, changing like the flowers in autumn's clime, As man sinks down in death, chill'd by the touch of time! I mark'd the picture-'t was the changeful scene Which life holds up to the observant eye: Its spring, and summer, and its bowers of green, The streaming sunlight of its morning sky, And the dark clouds of death, which linger by; For oft, when life is fresh and hope is strong, Shall early sorrow breathe the unbidden sigh, While age to death moves peacefully along, As on the singer's lip expires the finish'd song. THE FADED ONE. GONE to the slumber which may know no waking Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking, In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: A seal is set upon thy budding bosom, A bond of loneliness--a spell of death! Yet 't was but yesterday that all before thee Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, And thy light feet impress'd but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charm'd thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. How have the garlands of thy childhood wither'd, And hope's false anthem died upon the air! Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gather'd, And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even, Youth's braided wreath lies stain'd in sprinkled Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, [dust, Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust. A REMEMBRANCE. I SEE thee still! thou art not dead, Thine accents through my bosom thrill, Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep,For, wrapt in thought I see thee still! I see thee still,-that cheek of rose,- Those soul-lit eyes-I see them yet! For thou art garner'd in the tomb. Rich harvest for that ruthless power Which hath no bound to mar his will:Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour, Throned in my heart, I see thee still. |