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!”
Why should we mourn his loss? This is no home for the weary spirit.
Earth has nothing to satisfy the immortal mind; but, with a reach after
higher and holier things, it struggles to be away, satisfied only when
roaming free through the wide expanse of Eternity.
* * * * *