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!”