NEW YORK HARBOR, ON A CALM DAY.

Is this a painting? Are those pictured clouds
Which on the sky so movelessly repose?
Has some rare artist fashion'd forth the shrouds
Of yonder vessel ? Are these imaged shows
Of outline, figure, form, or is there life-

Life with a thousand pulses-in the scene
We gaze upon? Those towering banks between,
E'er toss'd these billows in tumultuous strife?

Billows! there's not a wave! the waters spread One broad, unbroken mirror; all around Is hush'd to silence-silence so profound, That a bird's carol, or an arrow sped Into the distance, would, like larum bell, Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell.

A MONUMENT TO WALTER SCOTT. "TIs said, that mid the Alps and Pyrenees,

And other lofty mountains, and in groves, And hidden places where the bandit roves, Uptowering piles of stones the traveller sees, That mark the spot where some have fallen and died: For them these shapeless monuments are rear'd, And, though to none who passes by endear'd, Each from his journeying, will turn aside

To cast his mite upon the rising moles, And guard the memory of the lost unknown; In this a deep, strong sentiment is shown

A kindred for the dead in living souls. If such, O, world-renown'd, thy grave could be, An Alp would rise a monument to thee!

TWILIGHT.

CALM twilight! in thy mild and silent time,
When summer flowers their perfume shed around,
And naught, save the deep, solitary sound
Of some far bell, is heard, with solemn chime
Tolling for vespers, or the evening bird
Pouring sweet music o'er the woodland glade,
As if to viewless sprites and fairies play'd,

Who join in dances when the strain is heard:
Then thoughts of those beloved and dearest, come
Like sweetest hues upon the shadow'd wave;
And joys that blossom'd in the bowers of home,
The dews of memory with freshness lave.
O! that my last daybeam of life would shine,
Serenely beautiful, calm hour, as thine!

SPRING.

THE birds sing cheerily, the streamlets shout
As if in echo; tones are all around:
The air is fill'd with one pervading sound
Of merriment. Bright creatures flit about;
. Slight spears of emerald glitter from the ground,
And frequent flowers, like helms of bloom, are
And, from the invisible army of fair things, [found;
Floats a low murmur like a distant sea!

I hear the clarions of the insect-kings
Marshal their busy cohorts on the lea.
Life, life in action-'tis all music, all-

From the enlivening cry of children free
To the swift dash of waters as they fall;

Released by thee, O, Spring, to glad, wild liberty!

THE STARS.

WHAT marvel is it that, in other lands

And ancient days, men worshipp'd the divine And brilliant majesty of stars that shine Pure in their lofty spheres, like angel-bands? With a deep reverence, when evening came

With her high train of shadows, have I bow'd Beneath the heaven, as each new-lighted flame Glow'd in the sapphire free from mist or cloud: A holy presence seem'd to fill the air;

Invisible spirits, such as live in dreams, Came floating down on their celestial beams, And from my heart there rose a silent prayer. What marvel, then, that men of yore could see In each bright star a glorious Deity!

WHILE DEPARTING FOR ITALY. FAREWELL, dear friend! the land is slowly fading; Our vessel spreads her white wings to the gale-Some eyes are dim and many cheeks are pale; The sailor's hand his storm-worn brow is shading,

As from the sea he gazes on the shore [home Where his own loved ones dwell--the home, dear Of deep and true affections, valued more, Since from their blessings Fate compels to roam. I go to seek fair health in softer climes;

Yet, dearest, ever lives my heart with thee! O, in the winter's chill and gloomy times, Send o'er the waters thy best hopes to me; And when Favonian airs around me stray, My thoughts, like summer-birds, shall homeward take their way.

DOMESTIC LOVE.

WHEN those we love are present to the sight, When those we love hear fond affection's words, The heart is cheerful, as in morning light

The merry song of early-waken'd birds: And, O! the atmosphere of home-how bright It floats around us, when we sit together Under a bower of vine in summer weather, Or round the hearthstone in a winter's night! This is a picture, not by Fancy drawnThe eve of life contrasted with its dawn; A gray-hair'd man-a girl with sunny eyes; He seems to speak, and, laughing, she replies: While father, mother, brothers smile to see [tree! How fair their rosebud blooms beneath the parent

THE SAME.

WHEN those we love are absent--far away,

When those we love have met some hapless fate, How pours the heart its lone and plaintive lay, As the wood-songster mourns her stolen mate! Alas! the summer-bower--how desolate! The winter-hearth--how dim its fire appears! While the pale memories of by-gone years Around our thoughts like spectral-shadows wait. How changed the picture! here, they all are parted To meet no more--the true, the gentle-hearted! The old have journey'd to their bourne--the young Wander, if living, distant lands among-And now we rest our dearest hopes above; For heavenly joy alone can match domestic love!

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK was born at Otisco, an agricultural town in central New York, in the year 1810. 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 CALDCLEUGH, 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:

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

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 blest, A type and a promise of heavenly rest.

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 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, 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!"