THE DOVE'S ERRAND.
Under cover of the night,
Feather'd darling, take your flight!
Lest some cruel archer fling
Arrow at your tender wing,
And your white, unspotted side
Be with crimson colour died :-
For with men who know not love
You and I are living, Dove.

Now I bind a perfumed letter
Round your neck with silken fetter;
Bear it safely, bear it well,
Over mountain, lake, and dell.
While the darkness is profound
You may fly along the ground,
But when morning's herald sings,
Mount
ye on sublimer wings;

High in heaven pursue your way
Till the fading light of day,
From the palace of the west,
Tints with fleckering gold your breast,
Shielded from the gaze of men,
You may stoop to earth again.
Stay, then, feather'd darling, stay,
Pause, and look along your way:
Well I know how fast you fly,
And the keenness of your eye.
By the time the second eve
Comes, your journey you'll achieve,
And above a gentle vale
Will on easy pinion sail.

In that vale, with dwellings strown,
One is standing all alone:
White it rises mid the leaves,
Woodbines clamber o'er its eaves,
And the honeysuckle falls
Pendant on its silent walls
'Tis a cottage, small and fair
As a cloud in summer air.

By a lattice, wreathed with flowers
Such as link the dancing hours,
Sitting in the twilight shade,
Envied dove, behold a maid!
Locks escaped from sunny band,
Cheeks reclined on snowy hand,
Looking sadly to the sky,
She will meet your searching eye.
Fear not, doubt not, timid dove,
You have found the home of love!
She will fold you to her breast-
Seraphs have not purer rest;
She your weary plumes will kiss—
Seraphs have not sweeter bliss!
Tremble not, my dove, nor start,
Should you feel her throbbing heart;
Joy has made her bright eye dim-
Well she knows you came from him,
Him she loves. O, luckless star!
He from her must dwell afar.

From your neck her fingers fine
Will the silken string untwine;
Reading then the words I trace,
Blushes will suffuse her face;

To her lips the lines she'll press,
And again my dove caress.
Mine, yes, mine-O, would that I
Could on rapid pinions fly!
Then I should not send you, dove,
On an errand to my love:
For I'd brave the sharpest gale,
And along the tempest sail;
Caring not for danger near,
Hurrying heedless, void of fear,
But to hear one tender word,
Breathed for me, my happy bird!
At the early dawn of day,
She will send you on your way,
Twining with another fetter
Round your neck another letter.
Speed ye, then, O, swiftly speed,
Like a prisoner newly freed:
O'er the mountain, o'er the vale,
Homeward, homeward, swiftly sail!
Never, never poise a plume,
Though beneath you Edens bloom:
Never, never think of rest,
Till night's shadow turns your breast
From pure white to mottled gray,
And the stars are round your way,—
Love's bright beacons, they will shine,
Dove, to show your home and mine!

"HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!"

How cheery are the mariners-

Those lovers of the sea!

Their hearts are like its yesty waves,

As bounding and as free.

They whistle when the storm-bird wheels
In circles round the mast;

And sing when deep in foam the ship
Ploughs onward to the blast.

What care the mariners for gales?
There's music in their roar,
When wide the berth along the lee,
And leagues of room before.
Let billows toss to mountain heights,
Or sink to chasms low,

The vessel stout will ride it out,
Nor reel beneath the blow.

With streamers down and canvass furl'd,
The gallant hull will float
Securely, as on inland lake
A silken-tassell'd boat;
And sound asleep some mariners,

And some with watchful eyes,
Will fearless be of dangers dark

That roll along the skies.
God keep those cheery mariners!
And temper all the gales
That sweep against the rocky coast
To their storm-shatter'd sails;
And men on shore will bless the ship
That could so guided be,
Safe in the hollow of His hand,

To brave the mighty sea!

LINES SPOKEN BY A BLIND BOY.

THE bird, that never tried his wing,
Can blithely hop and sweetly sing,
Though prison'd in a narrow cage,

Till his bright feathers droop with age.
So I, while never bless'd with sight,
Shut out from heaven's surrounding light,
Life's hours, and days, and years enjoy,-
Though blind, a merry-hearted boy.
That captive bird may never float
Through heaven, or pour his thrilling note
Mid shady groves, by pleasant streams
That sparkle in the soft moonbeams;
But he may gayly flutter round
Within his prison's scanty bound,
And give his soul to song, for he
Ne'er longs to taste sweet liberty.
O! may I not as happy dwell
Within my unillumined cell?
May I not leap, and sing, and play,
And turn my constant night to day?
I never saw the sky, the sea,
The earth was never green to me:
Then why, O, why should I repine
For blessings that were never mine!
Think not that blindness makes me sad,
My thoughts, like yours, are often glad.
Parents I have, who love me well,
Their different voices I can tell.
Though far away from them, I hear,
In dreams, their music meet my ear.
Is there a star so dear above
As the low voice of one you love?
I never saw my father's face,
Yet on his forehead when I place
My hand, and feel the wrinkles there,
Left less by time than anxious care,
I fear the world has sights of wo,
To knit the brows of manhood so,-
I sit upon my father's knee:
He'd love me less if I could see.

I never saw my mother smile:
Her gentle tones my heart beguile.
They fall like distant melody,
They are so mild and sweet to me.
She murmurs not-my mother dear!
Though sometimes I have kiss'd the tear
From her soft cheek, to tell the joy
One smiling word would give her boy.
Right merry was I every day!
Fearless to run about and play
With sisters, brothers, friends, and all,—
To answer to their sudden call,
To join the ring, to speed the chase,
To find each playmate's hiding-place,
And pass my hand across his brow,
To tell him I could do it now!
Yet though delightful flew the hours,
So pass'd in childhood's peaceful bowers,
When all were gone to school but I,
I used to sit at home and sigh;

And though I never long'd to view
The earth so green, the sky so blue,
I thought I'd give the world to look
Along the pages of a book.

Now, since I've learn'd to read and write,
My heart is fill'd with new delight;
And music too,-can there be found
A sight so beautiful as sound?

Tell me, kind friends, in one short word,
Am I not like a captive bird?

I live in song, and peace, and joy,-
Though blind, a merry-hearted boy.

THE ELYSIAN ISLE.

"It arose before them, the most beautiful island in the world."-IRVING'S Columbus.

It was a sweet and pleasant isle-
As fair as isle could be;

And the wave that kiss'd its sandy shore
Was the wave of the Indian sea.

It seem'd an emerald set by Heaven
On the ocean's dazzling brow-
And where it glow'd long ages past,

It glows as greenly now.

I've wander'd oft in its valleys bright,

Through the gloom of its leafy bowers, And breathed the breath of its spicy gales And the scent of its countless flowers.

I've seen its bird with the crimson wing
Float under the clear, blue sky;
I've heard the notes of its mocking-bird
On the evening waters die.

In the starry noon of its brilliant night,
When the world was hush'd in sleep-
I dream'd of the shipwreck'd gems that lie
On the floor of the soundless deep.

And I gather'd the shells that buried were
In the heart of its silver sands,
And toss'd them back on the running wave,
To be caught by viewless hands.

There are sister-spirits that dwell in the sea,

Of the spirits that dwell in the air;
And they never visit our northern clime,
Where the coast is bleak and bare:

But around the shores of the Indian isles
They revel and sing alone-

Though I saw them not, I heard by night
Their low, mysterious tone.

Elysian isle! I may never view

Thy birds and roses more,
Nor meet the kiss of thy loving breeze
As it seeks thy jewell'd shore.

Yet thou art treasured in my heart

As in thine own deep sea;

And, in all my dreams of the spirits' home, Dear isle, I picture thee!

A GREAT NAME.
TIME! thou destroyest the relics of the past,
And hidest all the footprints of thy march
On shatter'd column and on crumbled arch,
By moss and ivy growing green and fast.
Hurl'd into fragments by the tempest-blast,

The Rhodian monster lies; the obelisk,
That with sharp line divided the broad disc
Of Egypt's sun, down to the sands was cast:
And where these stood, no remnant-trophy stands,
And even the art is lost by which they rose:
Thus, with the monuments of other lands,

The place that knew them now no longer knows. Yet triumph not, O, Time; strong towers decay, But a great name shall never pass away!

INDOLENCE.

THERE is no type of indolence like this:—
A ship in harbour, not a signal flying,
The wave unstirr'd about her huge sides lying,
No breeze her drooping pennant-flag to kiss,
Or move the smallest rope that hangs aloft:

Sailors recumbent, listless, stretch'd around
Upon the polish'd deck or canvass—soft

To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found A bed more tender, since his mother's knee The stripling left to tempt the changeful sea.

Some are asleep, some whistle, try to sing, Some gape, and wonder when the ship will sail, Some damn' the calm and wish it was a gale; But every lubber there is lazy as a king.

SPORT.

To see a fellow of a summer's morning,
With a large foxhound of a slumberous eye
And a slim gun, go slowly lounging by,
About to give the feather'd bipeds warning,

That probably they may be shot hereafter,
Excites in me a quiet kind of laughter;
For, though I am no lover of the sport

Of harmless murder, yet it is to me Almost the funniest thing on earth to see A corpulent person, breathing with a snort, Go on a shooting frolic all alone;

For well I know that when he's out of town, He and his dog and gun will all lie down, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown.

M. I.

BORN in the north, and rear'd in tropic lands:
Her mind has all the vigour of a tree,
Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea,
And all the sweetness of a rose that stands
In the soft sunshine on some shelter'd lea.
She seems all life, and light, and love to me!
No winter lingers in her glowing smile,

No coldness in her deep, melodious words,
But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle,
And all the music of its tuneful birds.
With her conversing of my native bowers,
In the far south, I feel the genial air
Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers,
Which, like herself, are bright above compare.

TO MY SISTER.

SISTER! dear sister, I am getting old:

My hair is thinner, and the cheerful light That glisten'd in mine eyes is not as bright, Though while on thee I look, 'tis never cold. My hand is not so steady while I pen

These simple words to tell how warm and clear Flows my heart's fountain toward thee,sister dear! For years I've lived among my fellow-men, [joys, Shared their deep passions, known their griefs and And found Pride, Power, and Fame but gilded And, sailing far upon Ambition's waves, [toys; Beheld brave mariners on a troubled sea, [graves. Meet, what they fear'd not-shipwreck and their My spirit seeks its haven, dear, with thee!

ΤΟ

”T Is Winter now-but Spring will blossom soon, And flowers will lean to the embracing airAnd the young buds will vie with them to share Each zephyr's soft caress; and when the Moon

Bends her new silver bow, as if to fling

Her arrowy lustre through some vapour's wing, The streamlets will return the glance of night

From their pure, gliding mirrors, set by Spring Deep in rich frames of clustering chrysolite, Instead of Winter's crumbled sparks of white.

So, dearest! shall our loves, though frozen now By cold unkindness, bloom like buds and flowers, Like fountain's flash, for Hope with smiling brow Tells of a Spring, whose sweets shall all be ours!

ΤΟ

LADY, farewell! my heart no more to thee

Bends like the Parsee to the dawning sun; No more thy beauty lights the world for me, Or tints with gold the moments as they run. A cloud is on the landscape, and the beams

That made the valleys so divinely fair, And scatter'd diamonds on the gliding streams, And crown'd the mountains in their azure airAre veil'd forever!-Lady, fare thee well! Sadly as one who longeth for a sound To break the stillness of a deep profound, I turn and strike my frail, poetic shell:Listen! it is the last; for thee alone My heart no more shall wake its sorrowing tone.

TO A LADY WITH A BOUQUET. FLOWERS are love's truest language; they betray, Like the divining rods of Magi old,

Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold,
But love--strong love, that never can decay!
I send thee flowers, O dearest! and I deem
That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words,
Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds,
When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem
All eloquent of feelings unexpress'd.

O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair!
Let them repose upon thy forehead fair,

And on thy bosom's yielding snow be press'd! Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal The love that maiden coyness would conceal!

NEW YORK HARBOR, ON A CALM DAY.

Is this a painting? Are those pictured clouds
Which on the sky so movelessly repose?
Has some rare artist fashion'd forth the shrouds
Of yonder vessel ? Are these imaged shows
Of outline, figure, form, or is there life-

Life with a thousand pulses-in the scene
We gaze upon? Those towering banks between,
E'er toss'd these billows in tumultuous strife?

Billows! there's not a wave! the waters spread One broad, unbroken mirror; all around Is hush'd to silence-silence so profound, That a bird's carol, or an arrow sped Into the distance, would, like larum bell, Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell.

A MONUMENT TO WALTER SCOTT. "TIs said, that mid the Alps and Pyrenees,

And other lofty mountains, and in groves, And hidden places where the bandit roves, Uptowering piles of stones the traveller sees, That mark the spot where some have fallen and died: For them these shapeless monuments are rear'd, And, though to none who passes by endear'd, Each from his journeying, will turn aside

To cast his mite upon the rising moles, And guard the memory of the lost unknown; In this a deep, strong sentiment is shown

A kindred for the dead in living souls. If such, O, world-renown'd, thy grave could be, An Alp would rise a monument to thee!

TWILIGHT.

CALM twilight! in thy mild and silent time,
When summer flowers their perfume shed around,
And naught, save the deep, solitary sound
Of some far bell, is heard, with solemn chime
Tolling for vespers, or the evening bird
Pouring sweet music o'er the woodland glade,
As if to viewless sprites and fairies play'd,

Who join in dances when the strain is heard:
Then thoughts of those beloved and dearest, come
Like sweetest hues upon the shadow'd wave;
And joys that blossom'd in the bowers of home,
The dews of memory with freshness lave.
O! that my last daybeam of life would shine,
Serenely beautiful, calm hour, as thine!

SPRING.

THE birds sing cheerily, the streamlets shout
As if in echo; tones are all around:
The air is fill'd with one pervading sound
Of merriment. Bright creatures flit about;

Slight spears of emerald glitter from the ground,
And frequent flowers, like helms of bloom, are
And, from the invisible army of fair things, [found;
Floats a low murmur like a distant sea!
I hear the clarions of the insect-kings

Marshal their busy cohorts on the lea. Life, life in action-'tis all music, all

From the enlivening cry of children free To the swift dash of waters as they fall;

Released by thee, O, Spring, to glad, wild liberty!

THE STARS.

WHAT marvel is it that, in other lands

And ancient days, men worshipp'd the divine And brilliant majesty of stars that shine Pure in their lofty spheres, like angel-bands? With a deep reverence, when evening came

With her high train of shadows, have I bow'd Beneath the heaven, as each new-lighted flame Glow'd in the sapphire free from mist or cloud: A holy presence seem'd to fill the air;

Invisible spirits, such as live in dreams, Came floating down on their celestial beams, And from my heart there rose a silent prayer. What marvel, then, that men of yore could see In each bright star a glorious Deity!

WHILE DEPARTING FOR ITALY. FAREWELL, dear friend! the land is slowly fading; Our vessel spreads her white wings to the gale-Some eyes are dim and many cheeks are pale; The sailor's hand his storm-worn brow is shading,

As from the sea he gazes on the shore [home Where his own loved ones dwell--the home, dear Of deep and true affections, valued more, Since from their blessings Fate compels to roam. I go to seek fair health in softer climes;

Yet, dearest, ever lives my heart with thee! O, in the winter's chill and gloomy times, Send o'er the waters thy best hopes to me; And when Favonian airs around me stray, My thoughts, like summer-birds, shall homeward take their way.

DOMESTIC LOVE.

WHEN those we love are present to the sight,
When those we love hear fond affection's words,
The heart is cheerful, as in morning light
The merry song of early-waken'd birds:
And, O! the atmosphere of home-how bright
It floats around us, when we sit together
Under a bower of vine in summer weather,
Or round the hearthstone in a winter's night!
This is a picture, not by Fancy drawn-
The eve of life contrasted with its dawn;
A gray-hair'd man—a girl with sunny eyes;
He seems to speak, and, laughing, she replies:
While father, mother, brothers smile to see [tree!
How fair their rosebud blooms beneath the parent

THE SAME.

WHEN those we love are absent--far away,

When those we love have met some hapless fate, How pours the heart its lone and plaintive lay, As the wood-songster mourns her stolen mate! Alas! the summer-bower--how desolate!

The winter-hearth--how dim its fire appears! While the pale memories of by-gone years Around our thoughts like spectral-shadows wait. How changed the picture! here, they all are parted To meet no more-the true, the gentle-hearted! The old have journey'd to their bourne--the young Wander, if living, distant lands among-And now we rest our dearest hopes above; For heavenly joy alone can match domestic love!

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK was born at Otisco, an agricultural town in central New York, in the year 1910. 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 ELr, 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 1 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 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 dif ferent from those of his poetry. Occasionally he