poem, "The Ages," which is in the stanza of SPENSER, and in its versification is not inferior to "The Faerie Queene." "To a Waterfowl," "Inscription for an entrance to a Wood," and several other pieces of nearly equal merit were likewise written during his residence at Great Barrington. After passing ten years in successful practice in the courts, he determined to abandon the uncongenial business of a lawyer, and devote his attention more exclusively to literature. With this view, he removed to the city of New York in 1825, and, with a friend, established "The New York Review and Athenæum Magazine," in which he published several of his finest poems. In 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "Evening Post," one of the best gazettes in this country, with which he has ever since been connected. In the summer of 1834, Mr. BRYANT visited Europe, with his family, where he remained till 1836, when the illness of his partner and associate, the late WILLIAM LEGGETT, caused his hasty return. A splendid edition of his complete poetical works was published in 1846. He is a favorite with men of every variety of tastes. He has passages of profound reflection for the philosopher, and others of such simple beauty as to please the most illiterate. He has few equals in grace and power of expression. Every line has compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows with its fellows in exquisite harmony. Mr. BRYANT is the poet of nature. He places before us, in pictures warmly colored by the hues of the imagination, the old and shadowy forests, the sea-like prairies, the lakes, rivers, and mountains of our own country. To the thoughtful critic every thing in his verse belongs to America, and is as different from what marks the poetry of England as it is from that which most distinguishes the poetry of France or Germany.

1.

METH

20. EUTHANASIA.'

ETHINKS, when on the languid eye
Life's autumn scenes grow dim,-
When evening's shadows veil the sky,
And pleasure's siren' hymn
Grows fainter on the tuneless ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,

Or dream of seraphim,'-
It were not sad to cast away

This dull and cumbrous load of clay.

2. It were not sad to feel the heart

Grow passionless and cold;

'Euthanasia (yů than d' ze a), an easy or happy death.- Si' ren, in ancient mythology, a goddess who enticed men into her power by the charms of music, and devoured them. Hence, in modern use, an enticing woman; a female rendered dangerous by her enticements.- Sor' a phim, angels of the highest order.-' Cåst.

To feel those longings to depart
That cheer'd the good of old;

To clasp' the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,
And makes the curtain-fold,

That falls upon his wasting breast,
The door that leads to endless rest.

3. It were not lonely thus to lie
On that triumphant bed,

Till the pure spirit mounts on high,
By white-wing'd seraphs led:
Where glories earth may never know
O'er "many mansions" lingering glow,
In peerless luster shed;

It were not lonely thus to soar,

Where sin and grief can sting no more.

4. And, though the way to such a goal
Lies through the clouded tomb,
If on the free, unfetter'd soul

There rest no stains of gloom,
How should its aspirations rise
Far through the blue, unpillar'd skies,
Up to its final home!

Beyond the journeyings of the sun,

Where' streams of living waters run.

W. G. CLARK.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, a journalist, poet, and miscellaneous writer, was born at Otisco, an agricultural town in Central New York, in the year 1810. Stimulated 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 twenty years of age, he repaired to Philadelphia, where he commenced a weekly miscellany, which was abandoned after a brief period. 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

'Clåsp.-Earth (ẻrth).- Peer' less, matchless; having no equal.Where (whår).

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.

21. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.

I.

SUCCESSION OF HUMAN BEINGS.

Like leaves on trees the life of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies,

They fall successive, and successive rise:

So generations in their course decay;

So flourish these, when those have pass'd away.

II.

DEATH OF THE YOUNG AND FAIR.-ANON.

She died in beauty, like a rose blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty, like a pearl dropp'd from some diadem;
She died in beauty, like a lay along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty, like the song of birds amid the brake;
She died in beauty, like the snow on flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty, like a star lost on the brow of day;—
She lives in glory, like Night's gems set round the silver moon
She lives in glory, like the sun amid the blue of June.

III.

A LADY DROWNED.-PROCTER.

Is she dead?...

Why so shall I be,―ere these autumn blasts

Have blown on the beard of Winter. Is she dead!
Ay, she is dead,-quite dead! The wild Sea kiss'd hor
With its cold white lips, and then-put her to sleep:
She has a sand pillow, and a water sheet,
And never turns her head or knows 'tis morning!

IV.

THE LIFE OF MAN.-BEAUMONT.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in and paid to-night:
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

V.

CORONACH.-SCOTT.

He is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest
The fount, reäppearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering, to Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper takes the cars that are hōary,
But the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glōry;
The autumn winds rushing waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest.—
Fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber,'
Red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and forever!

'Coronach (kor' o nak), a song of lamentation; a lament.- Correl (kor' rå), the side of a hill where game usually lies.-m' ber, perplexity; distress.-' Fò' rày a sudden pillaging incursion in peace of

war.

VI.

IMMORTALITY.-R. II. Dana.

"Man, thou shalt never die!"

Celestial voices

Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touch'd, when the mild stars.
Of morning sang together, sound förth still
The song of our great immortality!
Thick-clustering orbs on this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

Oh listen, ye our spirits! drink it in

From all the air! "Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating mid day's setting glories; night,
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step,
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears.
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast mystic' instrument, are touch'd
By an unseen, living hand, and conscious chords.
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee :2

The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

THE

22. SELECTED EXTRACTS.

THE man who carries a lantern in a dark night, can have friends all around him, walking safely by the help of its rays, and he be not defrauded. So he who has the God-given light of hope in his breast, can help on many others in this world's darkness, not to his own loss, but to his precious gain.

2. As a rose after a shower, bent down by tear-drops, waits 'for a passing breeze or a kindly hand to shake its branches,

'Mys' tic, obscure; involving some secret meaning. Ju' bilee, a great festival among the Jews every fiftieth year, when the bondsmen were all set free and lands restored to their former owners.