Full as the harmony of winds to heaven;
Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies
To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes,
Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds
Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks,
The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine,
The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe,
Blent with the dulcet distance-mellowed bell,
Come, like the echo of his early joys.
In every pause, from spirits in mid air,
Responsive still were golden viols heard,
And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.

HOW PATERNAL WEALTH SHOULD BE EMPLOYED.

The mischievous, and truly American notion, that, to enjoy a respectable position, every man must traffic, or preach, or practise, or hold an office, brings to beggary and infamy many who might have lived, under a juster estimate of things, usefully and happily; and cuts us off from a needful, as well as ornamental, portion of society. The necessity of laboring for sustenance is, indeed, the great safeguard of the world, the ballast, without which the wild passions of men would bring communities to speedy wreck. But man will not labor without a motive; and successful accumulation, on the part of the parent, deprives the son of this impulse. Instead, then, of vainly contending against laws as insurmountable as those of physics, and attempting to drive their children into lucrative industry, why do not men, who have made themselves opulent, open their eyes, at once, to the glaring fact, that the causethe cause itself-which braced their own nerves to the struggle for fortune, does not exist for their offspring? The father has taken from his son his motive!-a motive confessedly important to happiness and virtue, in the present state of things. He is bound, therefore, by every consideration of prudence and humanity, neither to attempt to drag him forward without a cheering, animating principle of action-nor recklessly to abandon him to his own guidance-nor to poison him with the love of lucre for itself; but, under new circumstances, with new prospects, at a totally different starting-place from his own, to supply other motives-drawn from our sensibility to reputation, from our natural desire to know, from an enlarged view of our capacities and enjoyments, and a more high and liberal estimate of our relations to society. Fearful,

indeed, is the responsibility of leaving youth, without mental resources, to the temptations of splendid idleness? Men who have not considered this subject, while the objects of their affection yet surround their table, drop no seeds of generous sentiments, animate them with no discourse on the beauty of disinterestedness, the paramount value of the mind, and the dignity of that renown which is the echo of illustrious actions. Absorbed in one pursuit, their morning precept, their mid-day example, and their evening moral, too often conspire to teach a single maxim, and that in direct contradiction of the inculcation, so often and so variously repeated: "It is better to get wisdom than gold." Right views, a careful choice of agents, and the delegation, betimes, of strict authority, would insure the object. Only let the parent feel, and the son be early taught, that, with the command of money and leisure, to enter on manhood without having mastered every attainable accomplishment, is more disgraceful than threadbare garments, and we might have the happiness to see in the inheritors of paternal wealth, less frequently, idle, ignorant prodigals and heart-breakers, and more frequently, high-minded, highly educated young men, embellishing, if not called to public trusts, a private station.

With such a class ornamenting the circles of our chief cities, we should soon see a modification of claims. The arrogance of simple wealth would stand rebuked before the double title of those who superadded intellectual distinction. Accomplished minds, finding the air of fashionable assemblies more respirable, would more frequently venture into them. Society might be lively, various, and intelligent-an alliance of wit, learning, genius, and fortune, on terms of just appreciation. Meanwhile, the higher standard of public sentiment in relation to intellectual pursuits would thrill along the nerves of literature and the arts, to thousands, who now act in the belief that money is the true and only Kalon. With the juster recognition of mental claims, and the increasing honors paid to letters by the few, would follow an increase of respect in the many. Thence would ensue rectified perceptions as to man's true aims; a calmer and righter mind; and a less blind subserviency to our too-besetting passions.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, 1810-1841.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK was born in Otisco, Onondaga County, New York, in the year 1810. His father was an intelligent farmer, and early saw the indications of that poetic talent which manifested itself in many beautiful effusions while he was yet a youth. After completing his scholastic course, when 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 Rev. Ezra Stiles Ely, D. D., he commenced a weekly miscellany, similar in its design and character to the "Mirror" of New York. He soon found, however, that the profits were disproportioned to the labor, and was induced to abandon it. He then assumed, in conjunction with the Rev. Dr. Brantley, the charge of the "Columbian Star," a religious and literary periodical of a high character. While connected with this, he published numerous fugitive pieces of very decided merit.

After being associated a few years with the editor of the "Columbian Star," he was solicited to take charge of the "Philadelphia Gazette,” one of the oldest and most respectable daily papers of the city. He ultimately became its proprietor, and conducted it with great ability to the time of his death. In 1836, he was married to Anne Poyntell Caldcleugh, a lady of great personal attractions and rare accomplishments. But of a naturally delicate constitution, consumption soon marked her for his prey, and after a period of protracted suffering she was taken away in the very prime of her youth and happiness. The blow fell with a crushing weight upon her husband, and from this time his health gradually declined. He continued, however, to write for his paper until the last day of his life, the 12th of June, 1841.

“Mr. Clark's distinguishing traits are tenderness, pathos, and melody. In style and sentiment he is wholly original; but, if he resemble any writer, it is Mr. Bryant. The same lofty tone of sentiment, the same touches of melting pathos, the same refined sympathies with the beauties and harmonies of nature, and the same melody of style, characterize, in an almost equal degree, these delightful poets. The ordinary tone of Mr. Clark's poetry is gentle, solemn, and tender. His effusions flow in melody from a heart full of the sweetest affections, and upon their surface is mirrored all that is gentle and beautiful in nature, rendered more beautiful by the light of a lofty and religious imagination. He is one of the few writers who have succeeded in making the poetry of religion attractive. Young is sad, and

austere, Cowper is at times constrained, and Wordsworth is much too dreamy for the mass; but with Clark religion is unaffectedly blended with the simplest and sweetest affections of the heart. His poetry glitters with the dew, not of Castalia, but of heaven. No man, however cold, can resist the winning and natural sweetness and melody of the tone of piety that pervades his poems."

A SONG OF MAY.

The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling,
There are songs in the stream, there is health in the gale;

A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling,

As float the pure day-beams o'er mountain and vale;
The desolate reign of Old Winter is broken,
The verdure is fresh upon every tree;

Of Nature's revival the charm-and a token
Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.

The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning,
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning

To rest on the promise and hope of the year.
He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers,
He mounts to the zenith, and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.
The young bird is out on his delicate pinion-
He timidly sails in the infinite sky';

A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,
He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure,
The woodlands are singing, the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.

Alas! for my weary and care-haunted bosom!

The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;
The song in the wild-wood, the sheen of the blossom,
The fresh-welling fountain, their magic is o'er!
When I list to the streams, when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the Past with so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long vanished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.

From the wide-spreading earth, from the limitless heaven,
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;
To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloreth life with the hues of a dream:

'American Quarterly Review, xxii. 462.

The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth-
I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave:
But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.
Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended,
'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;
But the newness and sweetness of Being are ended,
I feel not their love-kindling witchery now;

The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping;
There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,
And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.

It is shut to the glow of this present existence,
It hears, from the Past, a funeral strain;

And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance

Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;
Where no mildew the soft damask-rose cheek shall nourish,
Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;
Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.

It is thus that the hopes which to others are given
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;
I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven,
I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;

And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,

Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;

O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,

For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.

THE YOUTHFUL DEAD.

"Weep not for the Youthful Dead,
Sleeping in their lowly bed ;
They are happier than we,
Howsoever blest we be!"

I.

Can the sigh be poured for the Early Dead,
On their pillows of dust reposing?
Should the tear of Pain, in that hour be shed,
When the earth o'er their slumber is closing?
Should the winds of heaven in Evening's hour

Bear the sighs of the laden bosom ;

When the Young are borne from Affliction's power,
Like the Spring's unsullied blossom?

Ere the blight of crime on the spirit came

Ere passion awakened its inward flame;

While the heart was pure, while the brow was fair,
Ere the records of Evil had gathered there?