The New York herald. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1840-1920, 1842-03-06

Death Bed OF Mcdonald Clarke.
Well, has one, himself poet of no mean order,
exclaimed
Blessings be on them and eternal praise
The Poets !"
And are they not indeed, true beneiactors OF our
race minglipg their unsought courtesies with the
3owliest let,-pouring the oil of Joy and gladness
into all hearts,-yea, blessing even the migrate and
the undeserving How many sources of perennial
delight have been opened up, which, but for them
would have, ave been fountains shut up and books
sealed With what friendly hands do they cast
veil over all that was once painful, and robbed the
. heart of rest,-and with what tenderness do they
love TO lnger on the sunny spots of life Frightening
the landscape with colers not ITS own, and dffusing
fresher fragrance around the bowers where friend
ship and affection were wont to Tepose! And then
when they have unfolded the terrible and the dark
and embodied in imperishable imagery, the stormy
passions CT the human heart, have not their lessons
oftmes sunk deeper, and come to richer and ripper
harvest than all the teachings of the schooman and
the sagei
And was Mcdonald Clarke poetl He was
Scattered over his rambling, wild, and incoherent
rhymes, there very many u.terances OF the most
genuine poetic spirit, shining like grains OF gold in
the unsifted sands of Pactolus. What memorable
chronicles
strugglngs of bosom burdened with that
Something still that prompts TIL eternal sigh !"
We are unacquainted with the early history of
Door Clarke, and know not the ofthat rooted.
sorrow" which was so intellgbly written on his fe-
vered brow. We have heard that his mind received
that shock from which it never recovered, from his
being unfortunate in love. But whatever were the
causes that had laid his mind in ruins, and driven
e. he face off arfh
never forget the air of inexpressible misery which
had settled itself on the once fine face Of the wander
ing oct, and proclaimed the power Of that heart
ache,
Young spirits into gray despars J!
On Friday last we visite ed him at the Asy lum We
raw that he was dying. He looked terribly worn
and wasted His voice was nearly gone, and the
hand OF death pressed heavy on his eyelids.
"Raise me up-raise me -higher-hisher % he
uttered, in whisper, and stretched upward his
wasted hand, as if Lac were seeking the snreached
paradise ofhis delirious dreams.
"Ah my head-my head-t will burst-oh it
will burst !" he again exclaimed, in tones heart
rending as might have melted heart Of stone.
evil you not eat-I have got nice custard fer
YOU Z" said the humane and aflectionae physician
OF the Asylum.
'Oh no no.! repneu tne dying poet ana his
palEd features clammy with the dews Of death, as
sumea a slight expression of disgust. Quite ex-
hausted, poor Clarke then sunk into an uneasy
sumber. AS we prepared to leave the apartment,
the rays Of the setting streamed through the
hall. closed easement, and fell with hallowed ra.
dance on he bed OF the departing poet 1t seemed
a message of peace and joy from heaven With
mois;ened eyes and heavy heart we turned to-
W ards the door and hurried from the scene.
In few hours all was over. The poor sufferer
continued to sink, and peacefully expired Satur
day forenoon.
"Aher nfes 6tful fever he sleeps we'll"