WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

Since our last number went to press, we have been called upon to mourn the death of Willis Gaylord Clark, one of the contributors to this Magazine, and a poet of unusual sweetness, elegance, melody and pathos. He died, in his thirty-second year, of pulmonary consumption. He had more than once been almost prostrated by this fell disease, but his constitution had rallied against its attacks, and he, as well as his friends, entertained hopes of his recovery; but about two months before his death, the disease apparently returned with renewed violence, and, after sinking gradually beneath its power, Mr. Clark’s life terminated on Sunday, the 13th of June, 1841.

As a man, Mr. Clark was universally esteemed. His warm heart, frank nature, and social qualities endeared him to all his friends, and he has left a blank in the little circle which he was wont to grace. To the last he enjoyed the society of his friends. He breathed to them the wish that no venomous tongue should be suffered to insult his fame when he was dead, and thus rob his orphan boy of his father’s only heritage—his name. God knows, the heart that could entertain aught evil towards the departed deserves not the companionship or sympathy of mankind. The dying moments of Mr. Clark were filled with the memory of his lost wife—to whom he has written some of the sweetest verses in the language—and his parting request was that he should be buried by her side, at the same hour of the day at which she was interred. Need we say his request was religiously fulfilled?

The closing days of the poet are finely drawn in the following lines, for which we are indebted to Robert Morris, Esq., another of our valued contributors, and one of the circle of Mr. Clark’s friends. They need no eulogy at our hands. They will commend themselves to all who loved the departed, or admire true poetry.

A DEATH SCENE IN THE CHAMBER OF A POET.

Come hither, friend! My voice grows thin and weak—

My limbs are feeble, and I feel that Death

Will soon achieve his conquest. Look not sad!

The being best beloved has gone before—

Why should I tarry here? An angel form

Beckons me on. Amid my morning dreams,

I hear her voice and see her starry eyes!

That voice so full of woman tenderness;

Those eyes that mirrored an unsullied soul!

Then look not sad! My peace is made with God,

And in the hope, which is the dawn of Heaven—

The Christian’s hope—I will a little hence

On my mysterious journey. Soon—how soon!—

The truth will break upon me! The dim stars,

Which now, this mellow night, like sands of gold,

Glitter amid the distance—it may be

That I may pass their confines on my course;

That peopled worlds may greet my spirit’s gaze!

Look, gentle friend, how brightly do they shine!

How like to living things! How beautiful!

How more than wonderful the mighty hand

That placed them there, all radiant with light!

Oh, God! in whose high presence soon my soul

Will stand uncovered, what a worm am I

Amid thy wonders vast and infinite!

And yet I feel th’ immortal burns within—

The quenchless light of an eternal soul!

Yes! as the frame decays; as this frail dust

Sinks to its native earth, the spirit’s wings

Unfold, and all within seems eager for the flight!

My voice is almost lost. Friend!—faithful friend,

Long tried and well beloved—before I leave

This summer scene of earth, yon fields and flowers—

Alas! like youth and life, they soon will fade—

I have a boon to crave. My boy, my only boy,

Will soon be fatherless! Forgive this tear;

It is among the last.

Hither, my child!

There lives his mother’s image—her soft eyes,

So large and full and dove-like; her brown hair,

So rich and silken, and her cheek of rose!

Oh! what a fate was hers! But yesterday,

All youth and hope and beauty; and to-day,

A banquet for the cold and creeping worm!

But far above the grave her spirit dwells,

Among the white-robed circles of the blest:

In that bright clime where Faith and Fancy soar,

And Love and Hope and Joy walk hand in hand.

But to the boon.

I would not, when my dust

Lies still and cold, leave bitter memories.

I would not leave a wound in any breast,

But fain with all the world would die in peace,

Forgiving all, and asking all forgiveness.

The only legacy that I may leave

My idol boy, is a weak dream of fame:

A phantom that has cheated me of life,

And fails me now, I fear, before the grave.

And yet, how that wild dream, tempting and bright,

Has spanned my youthful life, as does the bow

The summer storm! And now, e’en while I gaze.

And feel the mortal passing slowly off,

How dust still clings to dust, and a desire

Burns at my breast, that justice may be done

My memory!—that he, in after time—

(Poor child, how little recks he of this scene!—)

May speak his father’s name with love and pride.

* * * * * * * * * *

A hand—a friendly hand!—mine eyes grow dim—

His pale lip quivered, and the hectic tinge

Passed from his hollow cheeks. And see, he sleeps!

Alas! ’tis Death’s unchangeable repose—

The spirit of the poet soars to God!

Mr. Clark possessed poetic talents of no ordinary merit. He belonged to the school of Goldsmith and Pope, rather than to that of Byron or Coleridge. He was more remarkable for sweetness than passion, for melody than force, for fancy than imagination. The rank to which he belonged was not the highest, but in that rank he occupied one of the foremost stations. He was distinguished for his grace and euphony. Few men have written so elegantly as Mr. Clark; no man has excelled him in the melody of numbers. He obviously devoted the greatest attention to the composition of poetry, and no piece left his hand until it had received its utmost polish. There was a deep abiding sense of religion in his compositions which commend them to every heart. He was indeed almost the first poet to render the poetry of religion attractive; for Young, Cowper, Wordsworth, and even Milton, too often fail in this. But Mr. Clark was always successful, breathing, as he did, aspirations after a higher and better state of being, and emulating, if that were possible, the rapt enthusiasm of the Hebrew poet, when dreaming of the “better land”—that land to which he has now followed his long-wept wife. Yes! he has gone—

“Gone to his Heavenly Father’s rest!

The flowers of Eden round him blowing,

And on his ear the murmur blest

Of Siloa’s waters softly flowing!—

Beneath that Tree of Life which gives

To all the earth its healing leaves!

In the white robe of angels clad,

And wandering by that sacred river,

Whose streams of loveliness make glad

The city of our God forever!”

Why should we mourn his loss? This is no home for the weary spirit. Earth has nothing to satisfy the immortal mind; but, with a reach after higher and holier things, it struggles to be away, satisfied only when roaming free through the wide expanse of Eternity.