Whose eye and heart must soon or late grow dim, Toiling with poverty, or evils worse,

This gift of poetry is but a curse,
Unfitting it amid the world to brood,
And toil and jostle for a livelihood.
The feverish passion of the soul hath been
My bane. O JOVE! couldst thou but wean
Me back to boyhood for a space, it were
Indeed a gift. There was a sudden stir,
Thousands of years ago, upon the sea;
The waters foam'd, and parted hastily,
As though a giant left his azure home,
And Delos woke, and did to light up come
Within that Grecian sea. LATONA had,
Till then, been wandering, listlessly and sad,
About the earth, and through the hollow vast
Of water, follow'd by the angry haste
Of furious Juxo. Many a weary day,
Above the shaggy hills where, groaning, lay
ENCELADUS and TYPHON, she had roam'd,
And over volcanoes, where fire upfoam'd;
And sometimes in the forests she had lurk'd,
Where the fierce serpent through the herbage work'd,
Over gray weeds, and tiger-trampled flowers,
And where the lion hid in tangled bowers,
And where the panther, with his dappled skin,
Made day like night with his deep moaning din:
All things were there to fright the gentle soul-
The hedgehog, that across the path did roll,
Gray eagles, fang'd like cats, old vultures, bald,
Wild hawks and restless owls, whose cry appall'd,
Black bats and speckled tortoises, that snap,
And scorpions, hiding underneath gray stones,
With here and there old piles of human bones
Of the first men that found out what was war,
Brass heads of arrows, rusted scimetar,
Old crescent, shield, and edgeless battle-axe,
And near them skulls, with wide and gaping cracks,
Too old and dry for worms to dwell within;
Only the restless spider there did spin,
And made his house. And then she down would lay
Her restless head, among dry leaves, and faint,
And close her eyes till thou wouldst come and paint
Her visage with thy light; and then the blood
Would stir again about her heart, endued,
By thy kind look, with life again, and speed;
And then wouldst thou her gentle spirit feed
With new-wing'd hopes, and sunny fantasies,
And, looking piercingly amid the trees,
Drive from her path all those unwelcome sights.
Then would she rise, and o'er the flower-blights,
And through the tiger-peopled solitudes,

And odorous brakes, and panther-guarded woods,
Would keep her way until she reach'd the edge
Of the blue sea, and then, on some high ledge
Of thunder-blacken'd rocks, would sit and look
Into thine eye, nor fear lest from some nook
Should rise the hideous shapes that JuNo ruled,
And persecute her. Once her feet she cool'd
Upon a long and narrow beach. The brine
Had mark'd, as with an endless serpent-spine,
The sanded shore with a long line of shells,
Like those the Nereids weave, within the cells
Of their queen THETIS-such they pile around
The feet of cross old NEREUS, having found

That this will gain his grace, and such they bring
To the quaint PROTEUS, as an offering,
When they would have him tell their fate, and who
Shall first embrace them with a lover's glow.
And there LATONA stepp'd along the marge

Of the slow waves, and when one came more large,
And wet her feet, she tingled, as when Jove
Gave her the first, all-burning kiss of love.

Still on she kept, pacing along the sand,

And on the shells, and now and then would stand, !
And let her long and golden hair outfloat
Upon the waves-when, lo! the sudden note
Of the fierce, hissing dragon met her ear.
She shudder'd then, and, all-possess'd with fear,
Rush'd wildly through the hollow-sounding vast
Into the deep, deep sea; and then she pass'd
Through many wonders-coral-rafter'd caves,
Deep, far below the noise of upper waves-
Sea-flowers, that floated into golden hair,
Like misty silk-fishes, whose eyes did glare,
And some surpassing lovely-fleshless spine
Of old behemoths-flasks of hoarded wine
Among the timbers of old, shatter'd ships-
Goblets of gold, that had not touch'd the lips
Of men a thousand years. And then she lay
Her down, amid the ever-changing spray,
And wish'd, and begg'd to die; and then it was
That voice of thine the deities that awes,
Lifted to light beneath the Grecian skies
That rich and lustrous Delian paradise,
And placed LATONA there, while yet asleep,
With parted lip, and respiration deep,

[spilt

And open palm; and when at length she woke,
She found herself beneath a shadowy oak,
Huge and majestic; from its boughs look'd out
All birds, whose timid nature 't is to doubt
And fear mankind. The dove, with patient eyes
Earnestly did his artful nest devise,
And was most busy under sheltering leaves;
The thrush, that loves to sit upon gray eaves
Amid old ivy, she, too, sang and built;
And mock-bird songs rang out like hail-showers
Among the leaves, or on the velvet grass;
The bees did all around their store amass,
Or down depended from a swinging bough,
In tangled swarms. Above her dazzling brow
The lustrous humming-bird was whirling; and,
So near, that she might reach it with her hand,
Lay a gray lizard-such do notice give
When a foul serpent comes, and they do live
By the permission of the roughest hind;
Just at her feet, with mild eyes up-inclined,
A snowy antelope ropp'd off the buds
From hanging limbs; and in the solitudes
No noise disturb'd the birds, except the dim
Voice of a fount, that, from the grassy brim,
Rain'd upon violets its liquid light,
And visible love; also, the murmur slight
Of waves, that softly sang their anthem, and
Trode gently on the soft and noiseless sand,
As gentle children in sick-chambers grieve,
And go on tiptoe. Here, at call of eve,
When thou didst rise above the barred east,
Touching with light LATONA's snowy breast
And gentler eyes, and when the happy earth

Sent up its dews to thee-then she gave birth Unto APOLLO and the lustrous DIAN; And when the wings of morn commenced to fan The darkness from the east, afar there rose, Within the thick and odour-dropping forests, [est, Where moss was grayest and dim caves were hoarAfar there rose the known and dreadful hiss Of the pursuing dragon. Agonies Grew on LATONA's soul; and she had fled, And tried again the ocean's pervious bed, Had not APOLLO, young and bright APOLLO, Restrained from the dim and perilous hollow, And ask'd what meant the noise. "It is, O child! The hideous dragon that hath aye defiled My peace and quiet, sent by heaven's queen To slay her rival, me." Upon the green And mossy grass there lay a nervous bow, And heavy arrows, eagle-wing'd, which thou, O JOVE! hadst placed within APOLLO's reach. These grasping, the young god stood in the breach Of circling trees, with eye that fiercely glanced, Nostril expanded, lip press'd, foot advanced, And arrow at the string; when, lo! the coil Of the fierce snake came on with winding toil, And vast gyrations, crushing down the branches, With noise as when a hungry tiger cranches Huge bones: and then APOLLO drew his bow Full at the eye-nor ended with one blow: Dart after dart he hurl'd from off the stringAll at the eye-until a lifeless thing The dragon lay. Thus the young sun-god slew Old JUNO's scaly snake: and then he threw (So strong was he) the monster in the sea; And sharks came round and ate voraciously, Lashing the waters into bloody foam,

By their fierce fights. LATONA, then, might roam
In earth, air, sea, or heaven, void of dread;
For even JuNo badly might have sped
With her bright children, whom thou soon didst set
To rule the sun and moon, as they do yet.
Thou! who didst then their destiny control,
I here would woo thee, till into my soul
Thy light might sink. O JOVE! I am full sure
None bear unto thy star a love more pure
Than I; thou hast been, everywhere, to me
A source of inspiration. I should be
Sleepless, could I not first behold thine orb
Rise in the west; then doth my heart absorb,
Like other withering flowers, thy light and life;
For that neglect, which cutteth like a knife,
I never have from thee, unless the lake
Of heaven be clouded. Planet! thou wouldst make
Me, as thou didst thine ancient worshippers,
A poet; but, alas! whatever stirs

My tongue and pen, they both are faint and weak:
APOLLO hath not, in some gracious freak,
Given to me the spirit of his lyre,

Or touch'd my heart with his ethereal fire
And glorious essence: thus, whate'er I sing
Is weak and poor, and may but humbly ring
Above the waves of Time's far-booming sea.
All I can give is small; thou wilt not scorn
A heart: I give no golden sheaves of corn;
I burn to thee no rich and odorous gums;
I offer up to thee no hecatombs,

And build no altars: 't is a heart alone; Such as it is, I give it-'t is thy own.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

THOU glorious mocker of the world! I hear
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
Of these green solitudes-and all the clear,
Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear
And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs
Of vanish'd nations rolls thy music tide.
No light from history's starlike page illumes
The memory of those nations-they have died.
None cares for them but thou, and thou mayst sing,
Perhaps, o'er me-as now thy song doth ring
Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.
Thou scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave
The world's turmoil and never-ceasing din,
Where one from others no existence weaves,
Where the old sighs, the young turns gray and
grieves,

Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:
And thou dost flee into the broad, green woods,
And with thy soul of music thou dost win
Their heart to harmony-no jar intrudes
Upon thy sounding melody. O, where,
Amid the sweet musicians of the air,

Is one so dear as thee to these old solitudes?
Ha! what a burst was that! the Eolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of the lone woods-and now it comes again-
A multitudinous melody-like a rain
Of glossy music under echoing trees,
Over a ringing lake; it wraps the soul
With a bright harmony of happiness-
Even as a gem is wrapt, when round it roll
Their waves of brilliant flame-till we become,
E'en with the excess of our deep pleasure, dumb,
And pant like some swift runner clinging to the goal.
I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of the shades,
Alone with nature-but it may not be;
I have to struggle with the tumbling sea
Of human life, until existence fades
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar
Through the thick woods and shadow-checker'd
glades,

While naught of sorrow casts a dimness o'er
The brilliance of thy heart--but I must wear
As now, my garmenting of pain and care-
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.
Yet why complain ?-What though fond hopes
deferr'd
[gloom!
Have overshadow'd Youth's green paths with
Still, joy's rich music is not all unheard,—
There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird,
To welcome me, within my humble home ;-
There is an eye with love's devotion bright,
The darkness of existence to illume!
[blight
Then why complain?-When death shall cast his
Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest
Beneath these trees-and from thy swelling breast,
O'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light.

TO SPRING.

O THOU delicious Spring!

Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,
Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing
From odorous beds of light-enfolded flowers,
And from enmassed bowers,

That over grassy walks their greenness fling,
Come, gentle Spring!

Thou lover of young wind, That cometh from the invisible upper sea [bind, Beneath the sky, which clouds, its white foam, And, settling in the trees deliciously,

Makes young leaves dance with glee, Even in the teeth of that old, sober hind, Winter unkind,

Come to us; for thou art

Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring!
Touching the sacred feeling of the heart,
Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming;

And thou dost ever bring

A tide of gentle but resistless art
Upon the heart.

Red Autumn from the south

Contends with thee; alas! what may he show? What are his purple-stain'd and rosy mouth, And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow, And timid, pleasant glow,

Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth, And greenest youth?

Gay Summer conquers thee;

And yet he has no beauty such as thine;

What is his ever-streaming, fiery sea,

To the pure glory that with thee doth shine?
Thou season most divine,

What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy
Compare with thee?

Come, sit upon the hills,

And bid the waking streams leap down their side,
And green the vales with their slight-sounding
And when the stars upon the sky shall glide, [rills;
And crescent Dian ride,

I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills,
On grassy hills.

Alas! bright Spring, not long

Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence;

For thou shalt die the summer heat among,

Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense,

And, gone forever hence,

Exist no more: no more to earth belong,
Except in song.

So I who sing shall die:

Worn unto death, perchance, by care and sorrow; And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh, Bid unto this poor body a good-morrow,

Which now sometimes I borrow,

And breathe of joyance keener and more high, Ceasing to sigh!

LINES WRITTEN ON THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

THE deep, transparent sky is full

Of many thousand glittering lights-
Unnumber'd stars that calmly rule

The dark dominions of the night.
The mild, bright moon has upward rises,
Out of the gray and boundless plail.
And all around the white snows glisten,

Where frost, and ice, and silence rig -
While ages roll away, and they unchanged rem

These mountains, piercing the blue sky
With their eternal cones of ice;
The torrents dashing from on high,
O'er rock and crag and precipice;
Change not, but still remain as ever,
Unwasting, deathless, and sublime,
And will remain while lightnings quiver,
Or stars the hoary summits climb,
Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.
It is not so with all-I change,

And waste as with a living death,
Like one that hath become a strange,
Unwelcome guest, and lingereth
Among the memories of the past,
Where he is a forgotten name;
For Time hath greater power to blast

The hopes, the feelings, and the fame.
To make the passions fierce, or their first streh

to tame.

The wind comes rushing swift by me,

Pouring its coolness on my brow; Such was I once-as proudly free, And yet, alas! how alter'd now! Yet, while I gaze upon yon plain,

These mountains, this eternal sky, The scenes of boyhood come again, And pass before the vacant eye, Still wearing something of their ancient brilliancy. Yet why complain?-for what is wrong, False friends, cold-heartedness, deceit, And life already made too long,

To one who walks with bleeding feet

Over its paths?--it will but make

Death sweeter when it comes at lastAnd though the trampled heart may ache, Its agony of pain is past,

And calmness gathers there, while life is ebbing

fast.

Perhaps, when I have pass'd away,

Like the sad echo of a dream, There may be some one found to say

A word that might like sorrow seem. That I would have--one sadden'd tear, One kindly and regretting thoughtGrant me but that!-and even here.

Here, in this lone, unpeopled spot, To breathe away this life of pain, I murmur not.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK was born at Otisco, 1 agricultural town in central New York, in the ear 1310. His father had been a soldier in the volutionary army, and his services had won for im tributes of acknowledgment from the governent. He had read much, and was fond of philoophical speculations; and in his son he found an arnest and ready pupil. The teachings of the ther, and the classical inculcations of the Reerend GEORGE COLTON, a maternal relative, laid firm foundation for the acquirements which aftervard gave grace and vigour to his writings.

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

46

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:

'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?
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 appropri ate 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

-a

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 in- ' tercourse 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 i 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 fell-
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 Gon:
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 unkit 1, 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 out

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.