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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-
There are tones whose music for me is o'er,
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,-
Precious and rich-but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear-
Never again will they murmur here;

They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.

There were eyes, that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They reveal'd the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouch'd by sorrow, untaught by art;
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring,
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were fill'd with love that hath pass'd with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seem'd to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose;
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents, those smiles were shed-
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!

Alas! for the clod that is resting now
On those slumbering eyes-on that fated brow,
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom-
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas, for the hopes that with thee have died—
O, loved one!-would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm-
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom-thou art not here.

O! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest-
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.

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,
Where my budding raptures have perish'd all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast:
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid-
Thy brow is conceal'd by the coffin lid;-
All that was lovely to me is there-
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!

MEMORY.

"Tis sweet to remember! I would not forego
The charm which the past o'er the present can throw,
For all the gay visions that Fancy may weave
In her web of illusion, that shines to deceive.
We know not the future-the past we have felt-
Its cherish'd enjoyments the bosom can melt;
Its raptures anew o'er our pulses may roll,
When thoughts of the morrow fall cold on the soul.
"Tis sweet to remember! when storms are abroad,
To see in the rainbow the promise of GoD:
The day may be darken'd, but far in the west,
In vermilion and gold, sinks the sun to his rest;
With smiles like the morning he passeth away:-
Thus the beams of delight on the spirit can play,
When in calm reminiscence we gather the flowers
Which love scatter'd round us in happier hours.

"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
Where delectable prospects in beauty expand;
To smell the green fields, the fresh waters to hear
Whose once fairy music enchanted the ear;
To drink in the smiles that delighted us then,
To list the fond voices of childhood again,-
O, this the sad heart, like a reed that is bruised,
Binds up, when the banquet of hope is refused.
"Tis sweet to remember! And naught can destroy
The balm-breathing comfort, the glory, the joy,
Which spring from that fountain, to gladden our

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SONG OF MAY.

THE spring's scented buds all around me are swelling:

There are songs in the stream-there is health
in the gale;

A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,
As float the pure daybeams o'er mountain and
vale;

The desolate reign of old winter is broken

The verdure is fresh upon every tree;
Of Nature's revival the charm, and a token

Of love, O thou Spirit of Beauty, to thee!

The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning

To rest on the promise and hope of the year:
He fills with delight all the balm-breathing flowers;

He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers
lave.

The young bird is out on his delicate pinion-
He timidly sails in the infinite sky;

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;
Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.

It is thus that the hopes which to others are given
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;
I hear the clear anthems that ring through the
heaven--

I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;
And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,

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;
No more the music-tone

Float from his lips, to thine all fondly press'd;
His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee:
Earth must his mother and his pillow be.

His was the morning hour,

A bud, not yet a flower,

He pours on the west-winds that fragrantly sigh;
Around and above, there are quiet and pleasure And he hath pass'd in beauty from the day,
The woodlands are singing, the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.
Alas! for my weary and care-haunted bosom !

The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;
The song in the wildwood, the sheen in the blossom,

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
sleeping,

And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.
It is shut to the glow of this present existence-
It hears, from the Past, a funereal strain;
And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,
Where the last blooms of earth will be garner'd
again:

Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray;
The death-wind swept him to his soft repose,
As frost, in spring-time, blights the early rose.

Never on earth again

Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear,
Like some Æolian strain,
Breathing at eventide serene and clear;
His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes
The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.

And from thy yearning heart,
Whose inmost core was warm with love for him,
A gladness must depart,

And those kind eyes with many tears be dim;
While lonely memories, an unceasing train,
Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.

Yet, mourner, while the day
Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by,
And hope forbids one ray

To stream athwart the grief-discolour'd sky;
There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom
A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.

"Tis from the better land!

There, bathed in radiance that around them springs,
Thy loved one's wings expand;

As with the choiring cherubim he sings,
And all the glory of that GoD can see,
Who said, on carth, to children, "Come to me."

Mother, thy child is bless'd:
And though his presence may be lost to thee,
And vacant leave thy breast,

And miss'd, a sweet load from thy parent knee;
Though tones familiar from thine ear have pass'd,
Thou 'It meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.

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,
Are burden'd with the breath of countless fields;
They teem with incense from the green earth's breast
That up to heaven its grateful odour yields;
Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird,
By nature's aspect into rapture stirr'd.
In such a scene the sun-illumined heart

Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell,
When through its bars the morning glories dart,
And forest-anthems in his hearing swell-
And, like the heaving of the voiceful sea,
His panting bosom labours to be free.
Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky,
O, Summer! in my inmost soul arise
Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply,
And the bland air with its soft melodies;-
Till basking in some vision's glorious ray,
I long for eagle's plumes to flee away.
I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside,

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
Sink in the halls of the remorseless tomb,
Closing the changes of life's pilgrimage

In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom:
O! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,
When peals the requiem of the loved and young!
They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring
To the unfolding bud and scented rose,
Comes the pure freshness age can never bring,
And fills the spirit with a rich repose,
How shall we lay them in their final rest,
How pile the clods upon their wasting breast?
Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze;

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,
With her eye of light, and her lip of song;
While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast,
While the streams sprang out from their icy rest:
The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,
And their breath went forth in the scented sky;
When the fields look'd fresh in their sweet repose,
And the young dews slept on the new-born rose.
The scene was changed. It was Autumn's hour:
A frost had discolour'd the summer bower;
The blast wail'd sad mid the wither'd leaves,
The reaper stood musing by gather'd sheaves;
The mellow pomp of the rainbow woods
Was stirr'd by the sound of the rising floods;
And I knew by the cloud-by the wild wind's strain
That Winter drew near with his storms again!
I stood by the ocean; its waters roll'd
In their changeful beauty of sapphire and gold;
And day look'd down with its radiant smiles,
Where the blue waves danced round a thousand
The ships went forth on the trackless seas, [isles:
Their white wings play'd in the joyous breeze;
Their prows rushed on mid the parted foam,
While the wanderer was wrapp'd in a dream of home!
The mountain arose with its lofty brow,
While its shadow was sleeping in vales below;
The mist like a garland of glory lay,

Where its proud heights soar'd in the air away;
The eagle was there on his tireless wing,
And his shrick went up like an offering:
And he seem'd, in his sunward flight, to raise
A chant of thanksgiving-a hymn of praise!
I look'd on the arch of the midnight skies,
With its deep and unscarchable mysteries:
The moon, inid an eloquent multitude
Of unnumber'd stars, her career pursued:
A charm of sleep on the city fell,
All sounds lay hush'd in that brooding spell;
By babbling brooks were the buds at rest,
And the wild-bird dream'd on his downy nest.
I stood where the deepening tempest pass'd,
The strong trees groan'd in the sounding blast;
The murmuring deep with its wrecks roll'd on;
The clouds o'ershadow'd the mighty sun;
The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side,
And hills to the thunder-peal replied;
The lightning burst forth on its fearful way,
While the heavens were lit in its red array!
And hath man the power, with his pride and his skill,
To arouse all nature with storms at will?
Hath he power to colour the summer-cloud--
To allay the tempest when the hills are bow'd?
Can he waken the spring with her festal wreath?
Can the sun grow dim by his lightest breath?
Will he come again when death's vale is trod?
Who then shall dare murmur "There is no God!"

EUTHANASIA.

METHINKS, when on the languid eye
Life's autumn scenes grow dim;
When evening's shadows veil the sky,
And Pleasure's syren hymn
Grows fainter on the tuneless ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,

Or dream of seraphim,

It were not sad to cast away

This dull and cumbrous load of clay.
It were not sad to feel the heart

Grow passionless and cold;
To feel those longings to depart

That cheer'd the good of old;

To clasp the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,
And makes the curtain-fold
That falls upon his wasting breast
The door that leads to endless rest.

It were not lonely thus to lie

On that triumphant bed,
Till the pure spirit mounts on high,
By white-wing'd seraphs led:
Where glories earth may never know
O'er "many mansions" lingering glow,
In peerless lustre shed;

It were not lonely thus to soar,
Where sin and grief can sting no more.
And, though the way to such a goal
Lies through the clouded tomb,

If on the free, unfetter'd soul

There rest no stains of gloom,
How should its aspirations rise
Far through the blue, unpillar'd skies,
Up, to its final home!

Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run.

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,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in,
To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

And in this hallow'd spot, where Nature showers
Her summer smiles from fair and stainless skies,
Affection's hand may strew her dewy flowers,
Whose fragrant incense from the grave shall rise.
And here the impressive stone, engraved with words
Which grief sententious gives to marble pale,
Shall teach the heart; while waters, leaves, and birds
Make cheerful music in the passing gale.

Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour
On scented airs the unavailing sigh—
While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,
And landscapes blooming-that the loved must
die?

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,
Though dust is mingling with thy form;
The broken sunbeam hath not shed
The final rainbow on the storm:
In visions of the midnight deep,

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 lips, with dewy fragrance wet,
That forehead in serene repose,-

Those soul-lit eyes-I see them yet!
Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead,—
Thou gracest still this earthly sphere,
An influence still is round me shed,
Like thine, and yet thou art not here!
Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight,
Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom;
No more thy smiles inspire delight,

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.

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