But a stranger was there,

Surpassingly fair,

That filled me with woe.

For never before

On mountain or moor,

Such a heavenly-hued, pearl-bedewed flower I am sure Ever raised its fair form

To the sunshine or storm;

But it could not be mine.

For a wild honey bee

From over the sea,

Thence coming, loud humming, unmindful of me,

For his holiday treat

Sipped the nectaral sweet

That should have been mine.

Then an oriole came

With its bosom of flame,

And so dearly, sincerely, it warbled her name—

I gladly had pressed

The bright bird to my breast,

When it flew from my sight.

I have sought Geraldine

In all places, I ween

In the night, where the white marble monuments gleam 'Neath the yew's solemn shade,

To tell where is laid

A handful of dust!

And I found not my bride,

But a grave for my pride,

For each mound that I found had a mound by its side;

And if I were to die

I could not even lie

By my Geraldine's side.

Alas! none have seen

This lost Geraldine

Unreal, ideal, serene Geraldine !

Long, long is the day

Ere she passes this way!

Farewell to ye swains!

Choosing the profession of medicine, and duly awarded the degree of M. D. by Berkshire Medical College in 1860, supplemented by the honorarium of A. M. from Genesee College since, Dr. Clark gave himself up to it with all that zeal and enthusiasm so striking in his nature, and is now one of the leading physicians in the City of Locks. With him, poetry has been no sentimental diversion from daily duties. It has been but a constant pleasure, we may say, in the very midst of duty. It has helped to keep his heart warm and his soul sensitive; it has taught him what it is ever ready to teach those in communion with it-the sweetness and charm of lite, the hidden meaning of life's varied forms, the silent speech of marble statue and of silver wave. Hence,

PERDITA.

Her fair voung arms embrace the cross

On which the Prince of Glory died:
The star of faith beams on her brow,
The anchor-Hope-is by her side;
Her parting lips are moved in prayer,
Her falling tears are not of woe,

For in communion with her Lord,

She finds her heaven begun below.

Oh! better never earthly love

Had robbed the cross of such a saint;
That faith should dim and hope decline,

Or prayer be changed to sad complaint.
Her arms embrace-but not the cross;

Her lips are ripe - but not with prayer;
She holds communion with her Lord-
But Love is lord and master there!

How still and cold the marble lies!

What sculptor wrought that statue grand.

So beautiful, so like divine?

No workman of unskillful hand;

In every clime, his art was learned;

And all the world has owned his tame;

For God Himself his master was,

And Death the grim old master's name.

This was originally contributed to Appleton's fournal, and is admirable, in its way. It has been frequently copied. Better even than this, however, is the following apostrophe, which originally appeared in Godey's Magazine, addressed

TO THE VENUS OF MILO.

It matters not whose skill thy form created,

What hours he sat beside thy tomb alone;

Or how he watched and wept, or wrought and waited,
As grain by grain he rolled away the stone,
Until, at last, in glorious resurrection

His dead dream rose, transformed, no more to die,
Anointed from the horn of heaven's perfection

As every dead dream shall be by-and-by!

No queen or goddess thou; but yet right royal
It was to be the love of such a man,
Whose kingly head and skillful hand in loyal

Desire for truth, reached nature's perfect plan-
Created, gave the world thy stony splendor,

Revealed the beautiful that was to be-
Compelled the ministry of art to render
Invisible thought, a visible form in thee.

Let Pagans call thee Venus or Minerva,
Diana, Ceres, it is all the same;

Let Christians, worshipping with holy fervor,
Adore thee by the Virgin Mother's name
Thou art still more than these, Divine Creation!
A something grander than a name,
I ween-
Thoughts petrified - soul-throbs in preservation-
The marble memory of a sculptor's dream !

As a writer of sonnets Dr. Clark succeeds beyond the average. In the following we have three exquisite stanzas, which in turn embody a most exquisite idea:

THREE SONNETS BUT NO SONG.

Before Singing.

In vain you ask me, “Shall I sing to-day?"
I may be tuneless till this time next year;
But if I sing, my song shall feel no fear
Or sorrow, should you turn in scorn away,
And shame my simple strain, or smile and say—

1

As you have done before with scoff and sneer"The owl and not the nightingale I hear;" For when heaven sends the peace for which I pray My soul will soar as borne on eagle's wings,

And prayer shall lose itself in perfect praise ! God will except the offering that I bring

Though you despise my inharmonious lays. So shall I keep my harp-strings tuned and bright; And sing again when God gives me the light! The Interlude.

O! I have been a child of many prayers!

My mother-sleeping now beneath the sod, Gave me, ere I was born, in prayer to God To be His child. Let him declare who dares That she, in glory, now no longer cares

To shield my shoulders from the lifted rod; Or, that the pathway that my feet have trod Has not been gleaned by her from gins and snares. No hour that I have lived but some sweet word

From woman's lip has entered heaven for me,
And, by God's gracious tenderness been heard

And answered in some blessing full and free.
The eyes I oftenest caused on earth to weep,
In heaven, for me, their ceaseless vigils keep!

After Singing.

Great Son of God! O Jesus-brother mine-
My song has come and gone, and not a word
By other eye or ear was seen or heard!
I could not write or sing Thy love divine,
I only felt it, and the outward sign

Was love to all things that the Godhead stirred