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no previous section The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark
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40

TO EMILY B---.

‘Dear Girl! an angel sure thou art—
The muse of every spell
Which brings one transport to my heart,
And bids my bosom swell.
‘And oh! carnation on thy cheek
Its richest lustre lends;
And thy blue eyes forever speak
A welcome to thy friends.
Alas! if fate should bid us part,
Life would be naught with me;
A load would rest upon my heart,
Without a smile from thee.
‘Where shall I meet a leaf so fair
In Nature's open page?
With thee the beauteous flower compare,
And e'en my grief assuage?
‘Forgive, my love, this hasty lay,
And let its numbers be
Sweet monitors that day by day,
Shall bid thee think of me!’
41

TO EMILY B---

‘Dear Girl! an angel sour thou art—
The mule of every spell;
That brays o'er trumpets to my heart,
And bids my bosom swell.
‘And oh! darnation o'er thy cheek
Its rudest blister bends;
And thy blear eyes forever speak
A welcome to thy friends.
‘Alas! if fate should bind us fast,
Life would be rough with me;
A toad would rush upon my heart,
Without a smile from thee.
42

‘Where could I meet a lamp so fair
In Nature's open passage?
With thee the barbarous flower compare,
And own my grief a sausage?
‘Forgive, my bore, this nasty lay,
And let its numbers be
Sweet monitors, that drily dry,
Shall bid thee think of me!’
J. S.
50

A NEW PUZZLE.

It is as high as all the stars,
No well was ever sunk so low;
It is in age, five thousand years,
But was not born an hour ago.
It is as wet as water is,
No red-hot iron e'er was drier;
As dark as night, as cold as ice,
Shines like the sun, and burns like fire,
No soul, nor body to consume—
No fox more cunning, dunce more dull;
'Tis not on earth, 'tis in this room,
Hard as a stone and soft as wool.
'Tis of no color, but of snow,
Outside and inside black as ink;
All red, all yellow, green and blue—
This moment you upon it think.
In every noise, this strikes your ear,
'Twill soon expire, 'twill ne'er decay;
Does always in the light appear,
And yet was never seen by day.
Than the whole earth it larger is,
Than a small pin's point 't is less;
I'll tell you ten times what it is,
Yet after all, you shall not guess!
'Tis in your mouth, 't was never nigh—
Where'er you look, you see it still;
'Twill make you laugh, 'twill make you cry;
You feel it plain, touch what you will.
63

[All, all is gloom! and dandies in the dumps]

‘All, all is gloom! and dandies in the dumps,
Dance in responsive dullness to their pumps,
Like some town hack, that, spavined, old, and blind,
Trots to the wheezing of his broken wind.’
70

THE LIFE OF YOUTH.

AIR: ‘ALL ROUND MY HAT.’

There is a time when light, and air, and flowers,
Are shining brightly whereso'er we tread;
When, from the passing of the swift-wing'd hours,
An atmosphere of love and peace is shed;
When hope flits near us, on her angel wings,
And sweetly to the heart her anthem sings.
Then pleasant transports overcome the bosom,
And days in pictured guise go beaming by;
A softer breath exhaleth from the blossom—
A purer radiance gilds the open sky:
The hues of heaven are poured on every scene—
On the glad waters, and the fields of green.
All then is beauty; from the gay clouds, waving
Whene'er the breeze their golden skirts may stir,
To the blue streams their bloomy borders laving—
The budding orchard, or the vernal fir:
A look of gladness beams where'er we move,
And fills the dancing heart with holy love.
With love for Nature, and for Him whose power
Glows in the noontide, or the blush of morn;
Whose smile the waves receive—the tree, the flower—
The vine's rich tendrils, and the ripening corn;
It wakes a Sabbath feeling in the breast—
A tranquil sense of harmony and rest.
This is the Life of Youth!—and oh, how fleeting
The glorious splendors of its morning be!
With changeful hues the wildered fancy cheating,
As moonlight smiles imprint the evening sea;
While the fair sails sweep onward in their pride,
O'er treacherous waves that to dim whirlpools glide.
71

This is the Life of Youth! Oh, could it linger
About us ever, as de Leon sought;
Nor care, nor sorrow with effacing finger,
Destroy the magic web by fancy wrought,
This earth I could not then call stale and flat,
Nor the dark cypress wreathe ‘all round my hat!’
114

[Ask of the ocean-waves that burst]

Ask of the ocean-waves that burst
In music on the strand,
Whose murmurs load the scented breeze
That fans the Summer land;
Why is their harmony abroad,
Their cadence in the sky
That glitters with the smile of God
In mystery on high?
Question the cataract's boiling tide,
Down stooping from above,
Why its proud billows, far and wide
In stormy thunders move?
It is that in their hollow voice
A tone of praise is given,
Which bids the fainting heart rejoice,
And trust THE MIGHT of Heaven?
And ask the tribes whose matin song
Melts on the dewy air,
Why, like a stream that steals along,
Flow forth their praises there?
Why, when the veil of Eve comes down,
With all its starry hours,
The night-bird's melancholy lay
Rings from her solemn bowers?
It is some might of love within,
Some impulse from on high,
That bids their matin-song begin,
Or fills the evening sky
With gentle echoes all its own;
With sounds, that on the ear
Fall, like the voice of kindred gone,
Cut off in Youth's career!
Ask of the gales that sweep abroad,
When Sunset's fiery wall
Is crowned with many a painted cloud,
A gorgeous coronal;
115

Ask why their wings are trembling then
O'er Nature's sounding lyre,
While the far occidental hills
Are bathed in golden fire?
Oh! shall the wide world raise the song
Of peace, and joy, and love,
And shall man's heart not bid his tongue
In voiceful praises move?
Shall the old forest and the wave,
When summon'd by the breeze,
Yield a sweet flow of solemn praise,
And man have less than these?
129

THE EARLY DEAD.

‘Why mourn for the Young? Better that the light cloud should fade away in the morning's breath, than travel through the weary day, to gather in darkness, and end in storm.’

Bulwer.

If 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;
Oh! 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 chilled by Time!
Ere yet dark years on the warm cheek had shed
Autumnal mildew o'er its 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,
Through whose far depths the spirit's wing careers?
There gleams eternal o'er their ways are flung,
Who fade from earth while yet their years are young!
143

[That, smiling from the sweet south-west]

That, smiling from the sweet south-west,
The sunbeams might rejoice its breast.
[OMITTED]
One of those still and peaceful lakes,
That in a shining cluster lie,
On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky.
146

[—Cast round thine eyes, and see]

—‘Cast round thine eyes, and see
What conflux issuing forth, or entering in;
On embassies from regions far remote,
In various habits, on the Appian road,
Or on the Emilian.’
147

[Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take]

Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake,
Along whose banks the west winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile;
Oh, seek not thou the Fountain Isle!
Bright, bright, in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie;
Yet at their source, the lip shall burn,
Parched with the fever's agony;
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
Even there our hunters came of yore,
Back from their long and weary quest;
Had they not seen the untrodden shore,
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt among us as the dead!
148

They lay beside the glittering rills,
With visions in their darkened eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills,
Where elk and deer before them fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the winds were flung.
They bent no more the forest bow,
They armed not with the warrior-band;
The moon waved o'er them, dim and slow—
They left us, for the Spirit Land!
Beneath our pines, yon green-sward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
163

[Here speaks the voice of God! Let man be dumb]

Here speaks the voice of God! Let man be dumb,
Nor, with his vain aspirings, hither come;
164

That voice impels these hollow-sounding floods,
And with its presence shakes the distant woods;
These groaning rocks the Almighty's finger piled;
For ages here His painted bow has smiled;
Mocking the changes and the chance of time—
Eternal—beautiful—serene—sublime!
166

[When eve is purpling cliff and cave]

‘When eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart! how soft ye flow!
Not softer, on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits, crowd upon the eye;
The few we liked—the one we loved,
And all the heart is memory!’
167

[Unto thylke day i' the which I shall crepe]

‘Unto thylke day i' the which I shall crepe
Into my sepulchre.’
182

[Let no vain hopes deceive the mind]

Let no vain hopes deceive the mind:
No happier let us hope to find
To-morrow than to-day:
Our golden dreams of yore were bright—
Like them the present shall delight,
Like them decay.
Our lives like hastening streams must be,
That into one engulfing sea
Are doomed to fall:
The sea of death—whose waves roll on,
O'er king and kingdom, crown and throne,
And swallow all!
Alike the river's lordly pride,
Alike the humble rivulet's glide
To that sad wave;
Death levels poverty and pride,
And rich and poor sleep side by side,
Within the grave!

[From echoing hill or thicket, oft has seemed]

‘From echoing hill or thicket, oft has seemed
To hear celestial voices?’
183

[Answer me, burning stars of night]

‘Answer me, burning stars of night,
Where hath the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight
Even as a breeze hath flown?
And the stars answer me: ‘We roll
In light and power on high,
But of the never-dying soul,
Ask that which cannot die!’
185

‘TO MISS LUCRETIA SOPHONISBA MATILDA JERUSHA CATLING:

Thou hast ravished my heart—thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes! Thy neck is like the tower of David, builded for an armory, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men. How beautiful are thy feet, with shoes! Thy neck is as a tower of ivory: thine eyes like the fish-pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-Rabbin: thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon, which looketh toward Damascus. How fair and pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!’

[From the Canticles, or the Song of Songs, as originally written by Solomon, and sung by him at Jerusalem, with great applause.]

Thou canst not hope, oh! nymph divine,
That I should ever court the*–*–*–*–*9
Or that when passion's glow is done,
My heart can ever love but*–*–*–*–*–*1
When from Hope's flowers exhales the dew,
Then Love's false smile deserts us*–*–*–*2
Then Fancy's radiance 'gins to flee,
And life is robbed of all the*–*–*–*–*3
And Sorrow, sad, her tears must pour
O'er cheeks where roses bloomed be*–*–*–*4—19
Yes! life's a scene all dim as Styx;
Its joys are dear at*–*–*–*–*–*–*3f6
Its raptures fly so quickly hence,
They 're scarcely cheap at*–*–*–*–*–*18d
Oh! for the dreams that then survive!
They 're high at pennies*–*–*–*–*–*25
The breast no more is filled with heaven,
When years it numbers*–*–*–*–*–*27
And yields it up to Manhood's fate,
About the age of*–*–*–*–*–*–*28
Finds the world cold, and dim, and dirty,
Ere the heart's annual count is*–*–*–*–*30
Alas! for all the joys that follow,
I would not give a quarter-dollar!*–*–*–*25—1.97½
This, charming artiste, is the sum
To which life's added items come.
If into farther sums I stride,
I see the figures multiplied.
Subtract the profit ones from those
Whose all to loss untimely goes,
And in the aggregate you find
Enough to assure the thinking mind
That there's an overplus of evil,
Enough to fright the very d---l!
Thus, my dear maid, I send to you
The balance of my metre due;
Please scrutinize the above amount,
And set it down in my account;
A wink to a horse is as good as a nod—
Your humble servant,
Ollapod.
195

‘TO ONE FOUND WANTING.

‘Mene, mene, tekel upharsin!’—
Scripture.

‘Thou art no more, what once I knew
Thy heart and guileless tongue to be;
196

Thou art no longer pure and true,
Nor fond, to one who knelt to thee;
Who knelt, and deemed thee all his own,
Nor knew a dearer wish beside;
Who made his trembling passion known,
And looked to own thee for a bride.
‘What is the vow that once I heard
From those balm-breathing lips of thine?
Broken, ah! broken, word by word,
E'en while I worshipped at thy shrine!
Broken by thee, to whom I bowed,
As bends the wind-flower to the breeze,
As bent the Chaldean, through the cloud,
To Orion and the Pleiades.
‘But thou art lost! and I no more
Must drink thy undeceiving glance;
Our thousand fondling spells are o'er—
Our raptured moments in the dance.
Vanished, like dew-drops from the spray
Are moments which in beauty flew;
I cast life's brightest pearl away,
And, false one, breathe my last adieu!’

‘TO ORE, FOUND WASHING.

‘Mere, mere, treacle, O' Sartin!’—
Sculpture.

’Thou hast no means, at once to slew
Thy beasts, and girdless tongues to tree;
Thou hast no l'argent, pure and true,
Nor feed, for one who knelt to thee:
Who knelt, and dreemed thy all his own,
Nor knew a drearer wish betidle,
Who maid his tumbling parsnips known,
And looked to arm thee for a bridle!
‘What is the row? what once I heard
From those brow-beating limps of thine?
Brokers! oh, brokers! one by one,
E'en while I worshipped at thy shine!
197

Broker by three! to whom I lowed,
As lends the wind-flaw to the tries!
As burst the chaldron thro' the clod,
To Onions, and the fleas as dies!
‘But thou art lost! and I no more
Mus dirk thy undeceaving glance;
One thous & friendly squills are o'er,
Our ruptured moments in the dance!
Varnished, like dew-drops from the sprag,
Are moments which in business flew!
I cut life's brightest peal a-wag,
And, false one, break my bust—a dieu!’
218

[I often think each tottering form]

I often think each tottering form
That limps along in life's decline,
Once bore a heart as young, as warm,
As full of idle thoughts as MINE!
And each has had his dream of joy,
His own unequalled, pure romance;
Commencing, when the blushing boy
First thrills at lovely woman's glance.
And each could tell his tale of youth—
Would think its scenes of love evince
More passion, more unearthly truth,
Than any tale, before or since.
Yes! they could tell of tender lays
At midnight penned, in classic shades,
Of days more bright than modern days—
Of maids more fair than living maids.
219

Of whispers in a willing ear,
Of kisses on a blushing cheek—
Each kiss, each whisper, far too dear
For modern lips to give or speak.
Of prospects, too, untimely crossed,
Of passion slighted or betrayed—
Of kindred spirits early lost,
And buds that blossomed but to fade.
Of beaming eyes, and tresses gay,
Elastic form and noble brow,
And charms—that all have passed away,
And left them—what we see them now!
And is it thus!—is human love
So very light and frail a thing!
And must Youth's brightest visions move
For ever on Time's restless wing?
Must all the eyes that still are bright,
And all the lips that talk of bliss,
And all the forms so fair to sight,
Hereafter only come to this?
Then what are Love's best visions worth,
If we at length must lose them thus?
If all we value most on earth,
Ere long must fade away from us?
If that one being whom we take
From all the world, and still recur
To all she said, and for her sake
Feel far from joy, when far from her.
If that one form which we adore,
From youth to age, in bliss or pain,
Soon withers and is seen no more—
Why do we love—if love be vain?
239

ODE TO BOGLE.

DEDICATED, WITH PERMISSION, AND A PIECE OF MINT-STICK, TO META B---, AGED FOUR YEARS.

‘Restituit rem cunctando.’—
Eun. Ap. Cicero.

‘Of Brownis and of Bogilis ful is this buke.’—
Gawin Douglas.

Bogle! not he whose shadow flies
Before a frighted Scotchman's eyes,
But thou of Eighth near Sansom—thou
Colorless color'd man, whose brow
Unmoved the joys of life surveys,
Untouched the gloom of death displays;
Reckless if joy or grief prevail,
Stern, multifarious Bogle, hail!
Hail may'st thou Bogle, for thy reign
Extends o'er nature's wide domain,
Begins before our earliest breath,
Nor ceases with the hour of death:
Scarce seems the blushing maiden wed,
Unless thy care the supper spread;
Half christened only were that boy,
Whose heathen squalls our ears annoy,
If, supper finished, cakes and wine
Were given by any hand but thine;
And Christian burial e'en were scant,
Unless his aid the Bogle grant.
Lover of pomps! the dead might rise,
And feast upon himself his eyes,
When marshalling the black array,
Thou rul'st the sadness of the day;
Teaching how grief should be genteel,
And legatees should seem to feel.
Death's seneschal! 'tis thine to trace
For each his proper look and place,
How aunts should weep, where uncles stand,
With hostile cousins, hand in hand,
Give matchless gloves, and fitly shape
By length of face the length of crape.
See him erect, with lofty tread,
The dark scarf streaming from his head,
Lead forth his groups in order meet,
240

And range them, grief-wise in the street;
Presiding o'er the solemn show,
The very Chesterfield of wo.
Evil to him should bear the pall,
Yet comes two late or not at all;
Wo to the mourner who shall stray
One inch beyond the trim array;
Still worse, the kinsman who shall move,
Until thy signal voice approve.
Let widows, anxious to fulfil,
(For the first time,) the dear man's will,
Lovers and lawyers ill at ease,
For bliss deferr'd, or loss of fees,
Or heirs impatient of delay,
Chafe inly at his formal stay;
The Bogle heeds not; firm and true,
Resolved to give the dead his due,
No jot of honor will he bate,
Nor stir towards the church-yard gate,
Till the last parson is at hand,
And every hat has got its band.
Before his stride the town gives way—
Beggars and belles confess his sway;
Drays, prudes, and sweeps, a startled mass,
Rein up to let his cortége pass,
And Death himself, that ceaseless dun,
Who waits on all, yet waits for none,
Rebuked beneath his haughty tone,
Scarce dares to call his life his own.
Nor less, stupendous man! thy power,
In festal than in funeral hour,
When gas and beauty's blended rays
Set hearts and ball-rooms in a blaze;
Or spermaceti's light reveals
More ‘inward bruises’ than it heals;
In flames each belle her victim kills,
And ‘sparks fly upward’ in quadrilles,
Like iceberg in an Indian clime,
Refreshing Bogle breathes sublime,
Cool airs upon that sultry stream,
From Roman punch or frosted cream
So, sadly social, when we flee
From milky talk and watery tea,
To dance by inches in that strait
Betwixt a side-board and a grate,
With rug uplift, and blower tight,
'Gainst that foul fire-fiend, anthracite,
Then Bogle o'er the weary hours
A world of sweets incessant showers,
Till, blest relief from noise and foam,
The farewell pound-cake warns us home
Wide opes the crowd to let thee pass,
And hail the music of thy glass.
241

Drowning all other sounds, e'en those
From Bollman or Sigoigne that rose;
From Chapman's self some eye will stray
To rival charms upon thy tray,
Which thou dispensest with an air,
As life or death depended there.
Wo for the luckless wretch, whose back
Has stood against a window crack,
And then impartial, cool'st in turn
The youth whom love and Lehigh burn.
On Johnson's smooth and placid mien
A quaint and fitful smile is seen;
O'er Shepherd's pale romantic face,
A radiant simper we may trace;
But on the Bogle's steadfast cheek,
Lugubrious thoughts their presence speak.
His very smile, serenely stern,
As lighted lachrymary urn.
In church or state, in bower and hall,
He gives with equal face to all:
The wedding cake, the funeral crape,
The mourning glove, the festal grape;
In the same tone when crowd's disperse,
Calls Powell's hack, or Carter's hearse;
As gently grave, as sadly grim,
At the quick waltz as funeral hymn.
Thou social Fabius! since the day,
When Rome was saved by wise delay,
None else has found the happy chance,
By always waiting, to advance.
Let time and tide, coquettes so rude,
Pass on, yet hope to be pursued,
Thy gentler nature waits on all;
When parties rage, on thee they call,
Who seek no office in the state,
Content, while others push, to wait.
Yet, (not till Providence bestowed
On Adam's sons McAdam's road,)
Unstumbling foot was rarely given
To man nor beast when quickly driven;
And they do say, but this I doubt,
For seldom he lets things leak out,
They do say, ere the dances close,
His too are ‘light fantastic toes;’
Oh, if this be so, Bogle! then
How are we served by serving men.
A waiter by his weight forsaken!
An undertaker—overtaken!

L'ENVOI.

Meta! thy riper years may know
More of this world's fantastic show;
In thy time, as in mine, shall be,
242

Burials and pound-cake, beaux and tea;
Rooms shall be hot, and ices cold;
And flirts be both, as 't was of old;
Love, too, and mint-stick shall be made,
Some dearly bought, some lightly weighed;
As true the hearts, the forms as fair,
And equal joy and grace be there,
The smile as bright, as soft the ogle,
But never—never such a Bogle!
252

['T is an autumnal eve—the low winds, sighing]

'T is 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, palled in solemn vapor,
The rack, swift-wandering through the void above,
As I, a dreamer 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 splendor 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 unveiled by pen, or prophet's art?
Ah! loved and lost! in these autumnal hours,
When fairy colors deck the painted tree,
When the vast woodlands seem a sea of flowers,
Oh! 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.
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