WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK was born at Otisco, an agricultural town in central New York, in the year 1310. His father had been a soldier in the revolutionary army, and his services had won for him tributes of acknowledgment from the government. He had read much, and was fond of philosophical speculations; and in his son he found an earnest and ready pupil. The teachings of the father, and the classical inculcations of the Reverend GEORGE COLTON, a maternal relative, laid a firm foundation for the acquirements which afterward gave grace and vigour to his writings.

At an early age, stimulated by the splendid scenery outspread on every side around him, CLARK began to feel the poetic impulse. He painted the beauties of Nature with singular fidelity, and in numbers most musical; and as he grew older, a solemnity and gentle sadness of thought pervaded his verse, and evidenced his desire to gather from the scenes and images it reflected, lessons of morality.

When he was 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 Reverend Doctor ELY, commenced a weekly miscellany similar in design to the "Mirror," then and now published in New York. This work was abandoned after a brief period, and CLARK assumed, with the Reverend Doctor BRANTLEY, an eminent Baptist clergyman, now President of the College of South Carolina, the charge of the "Columbian Star," a religious and literary periodical, of high character, in which he printed many brief poems of considerable merit, a few of which were afterward included in a small volume with a more elaborate work entitled "The Spirit of Life," originally prepared as an exercise at a collegiate exhibition, and distinguished for the melody of its versification and the rare felicity of its illustrations.

After a long association with the reverend editor of the "Columbian Star," CLARK was solicited to take charge of the "Philadelphia Gazette," one of the oldest and most respectable journals in Pennsylvania. He ultimately became its proprietor, and from that time until his death continued to conduct it. In 1836 he was married to ANNE POYNTELL CALDCLERGH, the daughter of one of the wealthiest citizens of Philadelphia, and a woman of great personal beauty, rare accomplishments, and an affectionate disposition, who fell a victim to that most terrible disease of our climate, consumption, in the meridian of her youth and happiness, leaving her husband a prey to the deepest melancholy. In the following verses, written soon after this bereavement, his emotions are depicted with unaffected feeling:

'Tis an autumnal eve-the low winds, sighing To wet leaves, rustling as they hasten by ;

The eddying gusts to tossing boughs replying,
And ebon darkness filling all the sky,-
The moon, pale mistress, pall'd in solemn vapour,
The rack, swift-wandering through the void above,
As I, a mourner by my lonely taper,

Send back to faded hours the plaint of love.

Blossoms of peace, once in my pathway springing,
Where have your brightness and your splendour gone?
And thou, whose voice to me came sweet as singing,
What region holds thee, in the vast unknown?
What star far brighter than the rest contains thee,
Beloved, departed-empress of my heart!
What bond of full beatitude enchains thee,--
In realms unveil'd by pen, or prophet's art 7
Ah! loved and lost! in these autumnal hours,
When fairy colours deck the painted tree,
When the vast woodlands seem a sea of flowers,
O then my soul, exulting, bounds to thee!
Springs, as to clasp thee yet in this existence,
Yet to behold thee at my lonely side;
But the fond vision melts at once to distance,
And my sad heart gives echo-she has died!
Yes! when the morning of her years was brightest,
That angel-presence into dust went down,-
While yet with rosy dreams her rest was lightest,
Death for the olive wove the cypress-crown,—
Sleep, which no waking knows, o'ercame her bosom,
O'ercame her large, bright, spiritual eyes;
Spared in her bower connubial one fair blossom-
Then bore her spirit to the upper skies.

There let me meet her, when, life's struggles over,
The pure in love and thought their faith renew,-
Where man's forgiving and redeeming Lover

Spreads out his paradise to every view.

Let the dim Autumn, with its leaves descending,
Howl on the winter's verge!-yet spring will come :
So my freed soul, no more 'gainst fate contending,
With all it loveth shall regain its home!

From this time his health gradually declined, and his friends perceived that the same disease which had robbed him of the "light of his existence," would soon deprive them also of his fellowship. Though his illness was of long duration, he was himself unaware of its character, and when I last saw him, a few weeks before his death, he was rejoicing at the return of spring, and confident that he would soon be well enough to walk about the town or to go into the country. He continued to write for his paper until the last day of his life, the twelfth of June, 1841.

His metrical writings are all distinguished for a graceful and elegant diction, thoughts morally and poetically beautiful, and chaste and appropriate imagery. The sadness which pervades them is not the gloom of misanthropy, but a gentle religious melancholy; and while they portray the changes of life and nature, they point to another and a purer world, for which our affections are chastened, and our desires made perfect by suffering in this.

The qualities of his prose are essentially dif ferent from those of his poetry. Occasionally he

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,"monthly miscellany of high reputation edited by his only and twin brother, Mr. LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK-and especially a series of amusing papers

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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.

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.

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

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 blést, A type and a promise of heavenly rest.

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 day beams 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,

He pours on the west-winds that fragrantly sigh; Around and above, there are quiet and pleasureThe 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:

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,
And he hath 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-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 thec,
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 swellAnd, 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.

Is 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 shriek 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 unsearchable mysteries: The moon, mid 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,

Waken rich feelings in the careless breast, While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holdCome and secure interminable rest! [ing, 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.