There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb! There, the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails, Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; There's the mill that ground our yellow grain! There's the gate on which I used to swing, That dear group around my father's table; There's the gate on which I used to swing! I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled! Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said, When around it Jane and I were straying: She is dead! I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled! Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Tracing silently life's changeful story, Points me to seven that are now in glory Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Oft the aisle of that old church we trod! There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways, There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways! There my Mary blest me with her hand, When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hasten'd to the spirit-land; Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; Broken band! There my Mary blest me with her hand! I have come to see that grave once more, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core! I have come to see that grave once more. Angel, said he sadly, I am old! Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told: In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! Angel, said he sadly, I am old! By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Still I marked him, sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor, unknown, By the wayside, on a mossy stone! She, young and fair, expects delight; Forsooth, because the morn is bright, The rose, once gather'd, cannot please, It cannot please; Ah, simple maid, a rose to seize, That only blooms to tempt and tease: "Tis winter, but she pines for spring; Still reaping only fields of grain, Youth, weary youth, 'twill soon be past; His MANHOOD's happiness shall last; Now toiling up ambition's steep; The rugged path is hard to keep; The spring how far! the well how deep! The dream fulfilled! rank, fortune, fame; Vain fuel for celestial flame! He wins and wears a glittering name, Sweet beauty aims with Cupid's bow; Can she transfix him now!-ah, no! Indulgent heav'n, O grant but this, The Eden won :-insatiate still; A wider, fairer range, he will; Some mountain higher than his hill; From maid to matron, son to sire: Still sighs the world for something new; FOR SOMETHING NEW! SALE. THE WORLD FOR SALE!-Hang out the sign; And set me from earth's bondage free:- The bauble from my soul away; The World at Auction here to-day! It is a glorious thing to see, Ah, it has cheated me so sore! For sale! It shall be mine no more. I would not have you purchase dear; "Tis going-going!-I must sell! Who bids?-Who'll buy the Splendid T'ear? Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care? Once, twice, and thrice!-"Tis very low! And be with a world's curses crown'd! Who bids for man's last friend and best! This treasure should my soul sustain ; And SONG!-For sale my,tuneless lute; The chords that charmed my soul are mute, Or e'en were mine a wizard shell, Has taught my haughty heart to bow. Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long, And still its aching throb to bear ;— No more for me life's fitful dream;- SNOW. THE blessed morn my God. come again; The early gray Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, « Break, break from the enchanter's chain, Away,-away!" "Tis winter, yet there is no sound Of winds upon their battle-ground, The snow is falling,--all around The jocund fields would masquerade; Fantastic scene! Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade And join'd the revel, all array'd E'en the old posts, that hold the bars Forgetful of their wintry wars 445 High-capp'd, and plumed, like white hussars, The drifts are hanging by the sill, The hay-stack has become a hill; The wagon, loaded for the mill Maria brings the water-pail,But where's the well! Like magic of a fairy tale, Most strange to tell, All vanish'd,-curb, and crank, and rail;How deep it fel!! The wood-pile too is playing hide; The kennel of that friend so tried- The grindstone standing by its side, The bustling cock looks out aghast No spot to scratch him a repast, Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime Like Memnon's music of old time- So marbled they-and so sublime RALPH HOYT. Good Ruth has called the younker folk Full welcome was the word she spoke, The cottage quietude is broke, The snow!-the snow! Now rises from around the fire Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire! The patriarchal Book divine, Upon the knee, Opes where the gems of Judah shine,- How soars each heart with each fair line, Around the altar low they bend, As snows upon the roof descend, Guard o'er that household, to defend Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze; The old round stand her nod obeys, Unerring presages declare The banquet near; Soon, busy appetites are there; The glories of the ample fare, Now let the busy day begin : Out rolls the churn; Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin, To delve his threshing John must hie; Can all the subtle damp defy: How wades he through? Each to the hour's allotted care: The broken harness to repair; So cheerful-tranquil-snowy-fair EXTRACT FROM "THE BLACKSMITH'S PRIMEVAL Night! infinitude of gloom! Never a midnight but there came a morn! To conquer sorrow, and all fear to scorn! Links the strong worker with the happy skies, Vast as thy utmost wish could e'er desire; For man is regal when his strength is tried; When spirit wills, all matter must obey; Now as this rayless gloom aside I fling, Thy realm of action spreading on the view, Shaping the stubborn iron to the plan, Borne by the winds and waters through all time; WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. [Born, 1810. Died, 1841.] 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 autumnal eve-the low winds, sighing To wet leaves, rustling as they hasten by; The eddying gusts to tossing boughs replying, 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? In realms unveil'd by pen, or prophet's art? Death for the olive wove the cypress-crown, Sleep, which no waking knows, o'ercame her bosom, There let me meet her, when, life's struggles over, Spreads out his paradise to every view. 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 |