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 great merit, which were collected and published in a volume, under the simple title of Poems. He also wrote for the "Knickerbocker" an admirable series of papers, called Ollapodiana, which also were published in one volume. 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 Aune Poyntell Caldeleugh, a lady of great personal attractions and rare accomplishments. But, of a naturally delicate constitution, she was taken away in the very midst 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.' MEMORY. 'Tis sweet to remember! I would not forego The charm which the past o'er the present can throw, For all the gay visions that Fancy may weave In her web of illusion, that shines to deceive. We know not the future,-the past we have felt,- 1 "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." -American Quarterly Review, xxii. 462. A feeling and beautifully-written memoir of Mr. Clark will be found in the eighteenth volume of the " Knickerbocker." When in calm reminiscence we gather the flowers 'Tis sweet to remember! When friends are unkind, 'Tis sweet to remember! And naught can destroy I would not forget!-though my thoughts should be dark, THE INVITATION. "They that seek me early shall find me." Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding, Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, And, shining brightly in the forward distance, Though o'er its dust the curtain'd grave is closing, DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. Young mother, he is gone! His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast; Float from his lips, to thine all fondly press'd; His was the morning hour, And he had pass'd in beauty from the day, Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray; Never on earth again Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, Breathing at eventide serene and clear; And from thy yearning heart, Whose inmost core was warm with love for him, And those kind eyes with many tears be dim; Yet, mourner, while the day Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, To stream athwart the grief-discolor'd sky, A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb. 'Tis from the better land! There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, Thy loved one's wings expand; As with the choiring cherubim he sings, And all the glory of that GoD can see, Who said, on earth, to children, "Come to me." Mother, thy child is bless'd; And though his presence may be lost to thee, And miss'd, a sweet load from thy parent knee; EDGAR ALLEN POE, 1811--1849. EDGAR ALLEN POE was born in Baltimore, in January, 1811, was left an orphan by the death of his parents at Richmond, Virginia, in 1815, and adopted by John Allen, a wealthy merchant of that city. This gentleman indulged his protégé injudiciously, and thus increased his naturally proud and petulant disposition. In 1816, Mr. and Mrs. Allen visited England, taking Edgar with them. He remained there five years at school, returned in 1822, and soon after entered the University of Virginia, where he was graduated in 1826. After this, he led a wandering and dissipated life: first he is in Europe for a year; then, returning home, at West Point; then as a common soldier in the army; then in Charleston, South Carolina, as editor of the "Southern Literary Messenger;" till, in 1838, he settled in Philadelphia, having married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, and became the chief editor of the "Gentleman's Magazine," and "Graham's Magazine. In 1844, he went to New York, and found employment in editing the "Broadway Journal," and in contributing to various other magazines. In 1845 appeared his popular poem of The Raven; but he could not, or would not, break through his habits of dissipation, and he was reduced to the greatest poverty; and in the winter of the next year his wife died. In August of 1849, he left New York to deliver some lectures in Virginia. On his return, he stopped for a few hours in Baltimore. Here he met with acquaintances who invited him to drink: all his resolutions and duties were soon forgotten; and such were the effects of his carousing, that he was carried to an hospital; and there, on the evening of the 7th of October, 1849, he died, at the age of thirtyeight years. Mr. Poe is known chiefly for his criticisms, poems, and tales. In his criticisms he has displayed a keen analysis, a clear discrimination: they are sharp and well defined, but unfair. Influenced greatly by fear or favor, they are often absurdly contradictory; and through many of them there run a petty spirit of faultfinding, a burning jealousy, a self-complacent egotism. In his poems he has evinced the same subtlety of analysis, the same distinctness, the same deep knowledge of the power of words. Their elaboration is minute, their metre exquisite, both in its adaptation and polish; but they do not move the heart, for of feeling there is an essential want. His poetry, as he himself tells us, is the result of cold, mathematical calculation. But it is through his tales that Mr. Poc is best known, and in them is displayed the real bent of his genius. Their chief characteristic is a grim horror,-sometimes tangible, but usually shadowy and dim. He revelled in faintly sketching scenes of ghastly gloom, in imagining the most impossible plots, and in making them seem real by minute detail. His wild and weird conceptions have great power; but they affect the fears only, rarely the heart; while sometimes his morbid creations are repulsive and shocking; yet, in the path which he has chosen, he is unrivalled.' A fine edition of his works, with a memoir by R. W. Griswold, and notices of his life and genius by N. P. Willis and J. R. Lowell, has been published by Red field, New York, in four volumes. Read a good article on Poe and his works in the "North American Review," October, 1856. THE RAVEN.1 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary, Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 66 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 66 Surely,” said I,-" surely that is something at my window-lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore, Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; 'Tis the wind, and nothing more.' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more. This poem is generally allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment with rhythmical expression to be found in any language. While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavoring to win from books "surcease of sorrow for the lost Lenore," a raven-the symbol of despair-enters the room and perches upon a bust of Pallas. A colloquy follows between the poet and the bird of ill omen with its haunting croak of "Never more." |