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And pleasure's sīren' hymn
Or dream of seraphim,-
This dull and cumbrous load of clay.
Grow passionless and cold ;
That cheered the good of old ;
And makes the curtain-fold,
The door that leads to endless rest.
On that triumphant bed,
By white-winged seraphs led :
In peerless luster shed ;
Where sin and grief can sting no more.
Lies through the clouded tomb,
There rest no stains of gloom,
Up to its final home!
W. G. CLARK. WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, a journalist, poet, and miscellaneous writer, was born
Si' ren, one of three damsels, who sailed by forgot their country, or, according to some writers, of two, and died in an ecstacy of delight; - said to dwell near the Island of hence, an enticing, alluring, or danCaprea, in the Mediterranean, and to gerous woman; one rendered dan. sing with such sweetness that they gerous by her enticements.
at Otisco, an agricultural town in Central New York, in the year 1810. Stimu. lated by the splendid scenery outspread on every side around him, he began to feel the poetic impulse at an early age; and, in numbers most musical, painted the beauties of nature with singular fidelity. As he grew older, a solemnity and gentle sadness of thought pervaded his verse, and evinced his desire to gather from the scenes and images its reflected lessons of morality. When about twen. ty ycars of age, he repaired to Philadelphia, where he commenced a weekly miscellany, which was soon abandoned. He then assumed, with the Reverend Doctor Brantley, the charge of the “Columbian Star," a religious and literary periodical, of high character, in which he printed many brief poems of considerable merit. Some years later, he took charge of the “ Philadelphia Gazette," one of the oldest and most respectable journals in Pennsylvania, of which he ultimately became proprietor, and from that time until his death continued to conduct it. In 1836 he married Anne Poyntell Caldcleugh, the daughter of one of the wealthiest citizens of Philadelphia, and a woman of great personal beauty, rare accomplishments, and affectionate disposition, who soon after died of consumption, leaving her husband a prey to the deepest melancholy. From this time his health gradually declined, though he continued to write for his paper until the last day of his life, the twelfth of June, 1841. His metrical writings, which are pervaded by a gentle religious melancholy, are all distinguished for a graceful and elegant diction, thoughts morally and poetically beautiful, and chaste and appropriate imagery. His prose writings, on the other hand, were usually marked by passages of irresistible humor and wit. His perception of the ludicrous was acute, and his jests and “cranks and wanton wiles" evinced the fullness of his powers and the benevolence of his feelings.
22. BROKEN HEARTS.
I leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure : she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless—for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.
2. To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness-it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being-he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of vāried occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure : or, if the scene of disappoint
ment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his ăbode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, can “fly to the ŭttermost part of the earth, and be at rest.”
3. But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.
4. How many bright eyes grow dim-how many soft cheeks grow pale—how many lovely forms fade ăway into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection.
5. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself ; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful cărrents through the veins. Her rest is broken—the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams—" dry sorrow drinks her blood,” until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury.
6. Look for her, after a little while, and you will find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one who but lately glowed with all the rādiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to “darknèss and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition that laid her low; but no one knows of the mental malady that previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler.
7. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliäge, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted
and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decāy.
8. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner they were related.
VERY one must recollect the tragical story of young Em
mett,' the Irish pātriot : it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young-so intelligent—so generous—so brave—so ěverything that we are apt to like in a young man.
His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid !: The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country—the eloquent vindication of his name—and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation-all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.
2. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happiër days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and in'teresting girl, the daugh
| Robert Emmett, the Irish patri- ing the state into the hands of a ot, was born in 1780. He was exe- foreign power. cuted on the 20th of September, 1803. 3 In trěp' id, undaunted; brave.
* Treason, (trè' zn), the offense of 4 Vĩn'di cā' tion, a justification attempting to overthrow the govern against censure, objections, or accument of the state to which the of- sations; defense by proof, force, or fender owes allegiance, or of betray- otherwise.
ter of a late celebrated Irish barrister.' She loved him with the disin'terested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and dānger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his věry sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whõle soul was occupied by his image ? Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.
3. But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dishonored! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation-none of those tender though melancholy circumstances that endear the parting scene-nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.
4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and ămūsement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love.
5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scăth and scorch the soul—that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pléasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.”
5 John Philpot Curran, celebrated for his eloquence, wit, and sarcasm, born near Cork, 1750, and died 1817.