And through these bright and clustering curls
Thou shinest, a tiny thread of pearis.

Thou art a moralist? ah, well!

And comest from Wisdom's land,
A few sage axioms just to tell?

Well! well! I understand:-
Old Truth has sent thee here to bear
The maxims which we fain must hear.
And now, as I observe thee nearer,
Thou'rt pretty-very pretty-quite
As glossy and as fair-nay, fairer-
Than these, but not so bright;
And since thou came Truth's messenger,
Thou shalt remain, and speak of her.

She says thou art a herald, sent
In kind and friendly warning,
To mix with locks by Beauty blent,
(The fair young brow adorning,)

And 'midst their wild luxuriance taught

To show thyself, and waken thought.

That thought, which to the dreamer preaches
A lesson stern as true,

That all things pass away, and teaches

How youth must vanish too!

And thou wert sent to rouse anew

This thought, whene'er thou meet'st the view.

And comes there not a whispering sound,
A low, faint, murmuring breath,
Which, as thou movest, floats around

Like Echoes in their death?

"Time onward sweeps, youth flies, prepare”—
Such is thine errand, First Gray Hair.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, 1810-1841.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK' was born in Otisco, Onondaga County, New York, in the year 1810. His father was an intelligent farmer, and early saw the indications of that poetic talent which manifested itself in many beautiful effusions while he was yet a youth. After completing his scholastic course, when about twenty years of age, he repaired to Philadelphia, where his reputation as a poet had already preceded him, and, under the auspices of his friend, the Rev. Ezra Stiles Ely, D.D., he commenced a weekly miscellany, similar in its design and character to the "Mirror" of New York. He soon found, however, that the

1 His twin-brother, Lewis Gaylord Clark, is the editor of the "Knickerbocker Magazine," to the popularity of which he has largely contributed by his lively and instructive monthly lucubrations,-"The Editor's Table," and "Gossip with Readers and Correspondents."

profits were disproportioned to the labor, and was induced to abandon it. He then assumed, in conjunction with the Rev. Dr. Brantley, the charge of the "Columbian Star," a religious and literary periodical of a high character. While connected with this, he published numerous fugitive pieces of great merit, which were collected and published in a volume, under the simple title of Poems. He also wrote for the "Knickerbocker" an admirable series of papers, called Ollapodiana, which also were published in one volume.

After being associated a few years with the editor of the "Columbian Star," he was solicited to take charge of the "Philadelphia Gazette," one of the oldest and most respectable daily papers of the city. He ultimately became its proprietor and conducted it with great ability to the time of his death. In 1836, he was married to Anne Poyntell Caldeleugh, a lady of great personal attractions and rare accomplishments. But, of a naturally delicate constitution, she was taken away in the very midst of her youth and happiness. The blow fell with a crushing weight upon her husband, and from this time his health gradually declined. He continued, however, to write for his paper until the last day of his life, the 12th of June, 1841.1

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,

"Mr. Clark's distinguishing traits are tenderness, pathos, and melody. In style and sentiment he is wholly original; but, if he resemble any writer, it is Mr. Bryant. The same lofty tone of sentiment, the same touches of melting pathos, the same refined sympathies with the beauties and harmonies of nature, and the same melody of style, characterize, in an almost equal degree, these delightful poets. The ordinary tone of Mr. Clark's poetry is gentle, solemn, and tender. His effusions flow in melody from a heart full of the sweetest affections, and upon their surface is mirrored all that is gentle and beautiful in nature, rendered more beautiful by the light of a lofty and religious imagination. He is one of the few writers who have succeeded in making the poetry of religion attractive. Young is sad and austere, Cowper is at times constrained, and Wordsworth is much too dreamy for the mass; but with Clark religion is unaffectedly blended with the simplest and sweetest affections of the heart. His poetry glitters with the dew, not of Castalia, but of heaven. No man, however cold, can resist the winning and natural sweetness and melody of the tone of piety that pervades his poems." -American Quarterly Review, xxii. 462.

A feeling and beautifully-written memoir of Mr. Clark will be found in the eighteenth volume of the "Knickerbocker."

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 envelops 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,—
Oh, 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 way,
When the changeful and faithless desert or betray.

I would not forget!-though my thoughts should be dark,
O'er the ocean of life I look back from my bark,
And I see the lost Eden, where once I was blest,
A type and a promise of heavenly rest.

THE 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,
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast,
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding,
Come, 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 throwing
Fades, like the crimson from a sunset sky;
Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;
Oh, 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?

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,

And he had pass'd in beauty from the day,
A bud, not yet a flower,

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 Eolian 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-discolor'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 earth, 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'lt meet thy first-born with his LORD at last.

EDGAR ALLEN POE, 1811--1849.

EDGAR ALLEN POE was born in Baltimore, in January, 1811, was left an orphan by the death of his parents at Richmond, Virginia, in 1815, and adopted by John Allen, a wealthy merchant of that city. This gentleman indulged his protégé injudiciously, and thus increased his naturally proud and petulant disposition. In 1816, Mr. and Mrs. Allen visited England, taking Edgar with them. He remained there five years at school, returned in 1822, and soon after entered the University of Virginia, where he was graduated in 1826. After this, he led a wandering and dissipated life: first he is in Europe for a year; then, returning home, at West Point; then as a common soldier in the army; then in Charleston, South Carolina, as editor of the "Southern Literary Messenger;" till, in 1838, he settled in Philadelphia, having married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, and became the chief editor of the "Gentleman's Magazine," and "Graham's Magazine. In 1844, he went to New York, and found employment in editing the "Broadway Journal," and in contributing to various other magazines. In 1845 appeared his popular poem of The Raven; but he could not, or would not, break through his habits of dissipation, and he was reduced to the greatest poverty; and in the winter of the next year his wife died.

In August of 1849, he left New York to deliver some lectures in Virginia. On his return, he stopped for a few hours in Baltimore. Here he met with acquaintances who invited him to drink: all his resolutions and duties were soon forgotten; and such were the effects of his carousing, that he was carried to an hospital; and there, on the evening of the 7th of October, 1849, he died, at the age of thirtyeight years.

Mr. Poe is known chiefly for his criticisms, poems, and tales. In his criticisms he has displayed a keen analysis, a clear discrimination: they are sharp and well defined, but unfair. Influenced greatly by fear or favor, they are often absurdly contradictory; and through many of them there run a petty spirit of faultfinding, a burning jealousy, a self-complacent egotism. In his poems he has evinced the same subtlety of analysis, the same distinctness, the same deep knowledge of the power of words. Their elaboration is minute, their metre exquisite, both in its adaptation and polish; but they do not move the heart, for of feeling there is an essential want. His poetry, as he himself tells us, is the result of cold, mathematical calculation.

But it is through his tales that Mr. Poe is best known, and in them is displayed the real bent of his genius. Their chief characteristic is a grim horror,-sometimes tangible, but usually shadowy and dim. He revelled in faintly sketching scenos of ghastly gloom, in imagining the most impossible plots, and in making them seem real by minute detail. His wild and weird conceptions have great power; but they affect the fears only, rarely the heart; while sometimes his morbid creations are repulsive and shocking; yet, in the path which he has chosen, he is unrivalled.1

A fine edition of his works, with a memoir by R. W. Griswold, and notices of his life and genius by N. P. Willis and J. R. Lowell, has been published by Red field, New York, in four volumes. Read a good article on Poe and his works in the "North American Review," October, 1856.