Since our last number went to press, we have been called upon to mourn
the death of Willis Gaylord Clark, one of the contributors to this
Magazine, and a poet of unusual sweetness, elegance, melody and pathos.
He died, in his thirty-second year, of pulmonary consumption. He had
more than once been almost prostrated by this fell disease, but his
constitution had rallied against its attacks, and he, as well as his
friends, entertained hopes of his recovery; but about two months before
his death, the disease apparently returned with renewed violence, and,
after sinking gradually beneath its power, Mr. Clark’s life terminated
on Sunday, the 13th of June, 1841.
As a man, Mr. Clark was universally esteemed. His warm heart, frank
nature, and social qualities endeared him to all his friends, and he has
left a blank in the little circle which he was wont to grace. To the
last he enjoyed the society of his friends. He breathed to them the wish
that no venomous tongue should be suffered to insult his fame when he
was dead, and thus rob his orphan boy of his father’s only heritage—his
name. God knows, the heart that could entertain aught evil towards the
departed deserves not the companionship or sympathy of mankind. The
dying moments of Mr. Clark were filled with the memory of his lost
wife—to whom he has written some of the sweetest verses in the
language—and his parting request was that he should be buried by her
side, at the same hour of the day at which she was interred. Need we say
his request was religiously fulfilled?
The closing days of the poet are finely drawn in the following lines,
for which we are indebted to Robert Morris, Esq., another of our valued
contributors, and one of the circle of Mr. Clark’s friends. They need no
eulogy at our hands. They will commend themselves to all who loved the
departed, or admire true poetry.