Luella Clark was a prolific nineteenth-century poet whose effusions graced the pages of the leading literary journals in the United States, but today her contributions to literature have been largely forgotten. Clark’s importance to history lies in her association with social reformer Frances Elizabeth Willard; as a college professor at the Northwestern Female College (now Northwestern University), Clark was an instructor, adviser, mentor, and beloved friend of Willard.
Biographical information concerning Clark is scarce. The daughter of James and Lucinda (Eastman) Clark, she was born March 10, 1832 in Lisbon, New Hampshire and was educated at Newbury Seminary in Vermont. She afterward became a school teacher and taught for several years in New York and Wisconsin.
In 1858 Clark came to Evanston, Illinois, where she was preceptress of mental science and belles lettres at the Northwestern Female College. She later taught German, and for two years served as the school’s lady principal. After ten years at Northwestern, Clark left Evanston to teach at the Wesleyan Woman’s College in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Clark retired from teaching in 1878, and returned to New Hampshire to care for her ailing mother. Although her mother died in 1889, Clark stayed at the family farm in Landaff until 1905. She then moved to Newport, Rhode Island to live with her nieces Mary, Blanche, and Luella Leavitt. Clark never married. She died in Newport, Rhode Island on October 19, 1915, and was interred at the Landaff Center Cemetery in Landaff, New Hampshire. In 1947, after the death of her niece, Luella Katherine Leavitt, $15,000 was bequeathed to Northwestern University to establish the Luella Clark scholarship fund.
Clark’s former pupil, future WCTU president Frances Willard, later wrote of her beloved teacher:
Miss Luella Clark, of the Northwestern Female College, was a genius, and the world would have known it had the motor matched the intellectual forces of her being. She was a poet born, but poets must be made as well as born. If ever anybody loved Evanston with something akin to worship, that woman did…She was “composition teacher,” and gave strong and noble impulse to our proclivities for writing; she taught us mental philosophy and was a spiritual uplift not less than a mental stimulus to her pupils. She was a most sensitive and refined nature, upon whom the world’s rough winds might not play without imparting pain. In our sorrows she was at one with us, but the bright smile and telling repartee ofttimes added flavor to our joy. (A Classic Town, 227-228)
Clark was a contributor to the Atlantic Monthly, the National Era, and the Independent. A staunch Methodist, Clark’s works also appeared frequently in publications of that denomination, including the Ladies’ Repository, Zion’s Herald, and the Christian Advocate. A collection of her poems, April Days, was published in 1904.
A Dead Rose
Here is a withered rose, pressed close between
The leaves of Browning’s lyrics; crimson stain—
The blood of rose or lyric? on the page—
One brittle, faded leaf upon the stem.
Dead, buried here; O long-forgotten flower,
Why shouldst thou on this sullen winter day
Come to thy resurrection? O pale leaves,
How red you grow, how sweet: how sing the birds.
How all the splendid passion of that June
When first you bloomed comes surging back, the while
The wind and snow beat on the frozen pane—
Warmth, wealth of blossoms, faces, hearts beloved!
Back to thy death, dear rose! Why shouldst thou live,
Since cold the hand that plucked thee, long ago?
Published in April Days (1904)
Resurrection
The April days are here; the winter’s cold
Gives place to genial warmth; the willows bold
Put on their gala dress to greet the day,
The bluebird sings in just the old, sweet way.
Each restless rootlet, freed from frosty night,
Builds quick a blade of green to greet the light,
And every footfall feels the busy strife
Of germs unnumbered struggling into life.
The robin, lover of the twilight long,
Blesses the budding orchard boughs with song.
A trembling gauze of green the woodland holds
Wrapped in the mystery of its fragrant folds.
The violets, up and down each wayward lane,
Answer the summons of the clear-voiced rain—
Waking serene from sleep, as children do—
The love-light in their eyes tender and true.
Learn, O my soul, the lesson o’er and o’er—
Life conquers death, now and forevermore;
Nay, rather death is not. Whate’er befall,
‘Tis life alone, triumphant over all.
Published in April Days (1904)
Up the Hill A-Berrying
On a sunny summer morning,
….Early as the dew was dry,
Up the hill I went a-berrying;
….Need I tell you—tell you why?
Farmer Davis had a daughter;
….And it happened that I knew,
On such sunny mornings, Jenny
….Up the hill went berrying too.
Lonely work is picking berries;
….So I joined her on the hill:
“Jenny, dear,” said I, “your basket’s
….Quite too large for one to fill.”
So we staid—we two—to fill it,
….Jenny talking—I was still—
Leading where the way was steepest;
….Picking berries up the hill.
“This is up-hill work,” said Jenny:
….“So is life,” said I; “shall we
Climb it each alone, or, Jenny,
….Will you come and climb with me?”
Redder than the blushing berries
….Jenny’s cheek a moment grew;
While, without delay, she answered,
….“I will come and climb with you.”
Published in the Ladies’ Repository, March 1859; April Days (1904). “Up the Hill A-Berrying” is probably Luella Clark’s best-known poem, and was published widely in newspapers across the country. In the September 1860 edition of the Ladies’ Repository, the editor noted: “Up the Hill A-Berrying—A neat little poem, by Luella Clark, was published under this title in the March number, 1859, of the Repository—since then it has been copied into many of our exchanges with a variety of headings, such as “Jenny,” “I and Jenny Davis,” but, we believe, never once with the proper credit either to the author or the magazine.”
An April Day
Sometime I sit in the quiet gray
Of the slow-departing April day,
And think what record it bears away,
Away beyond the sunset bars,
Beyond the silent, steadfast stars—
What record of my growth, or lack
To seize the hours that come not back—
What gain from this day’s beauty gone;
What from its purple hour of dawn;
What from its sunshine, soft and still,
Sleeping on valley, lake, and hill.
Do I know better what can mean
These countless brave buds bursting green?
Mean for my soul that daily sees
Repeated miracles like these?
My soul that wakes each morn from sleep
To find how constant all things keep
Their settled round—how morn and night
Repeat their charms of sound and sight;
To see how some unhindered Will
Commands each power of nature still,
Subjects all to some subtile law,
So disconnecting force from flaw,
That, ever in a fair design,
Daily unfolds the plan divine—
So that the sunshine never fails
To brighten all earth’s lowliest vales,
So that no blot the morning mars,
No night comes on without its stars;
No ocean tides forget to flow,
No stormy clouds to strew their snow.
Has this day brought me nothing whence
My soul has gained a subtler sense
To pierce the veil that falls between
The earthly and the great unseen?
Have not these bird-songs clear and low,
The sunset’s gold, the mellow glow
Of cheerful noontide on the hill,
Suggested something fairer still?
Has not the violet, blooming sweet
Beneath the tread of careless feet,
Said something plain as any word
That age or prophet ever heard?
Has not the frail and fading flower,
That bloomed and withered in an hour,
No date beyond its passing breath,
No lesson but its painless death?
Ah, yes, if this, if this were all,
If bird-songs perish where they fall,
If sunsets fade and, fading, die,
‘T were vain to ask or wonder why,
Of all our lives each fleeting day
Hath such a changeful, fair array.
But if each symbol hath some germ—
Each glowing star, each creeping worm—
Some germ of what, beyond our ken,
Hath meaning and delight for men,
Then well may all days teach us this,
That God’s good gifts we often miss
By disregard of humble things—
Since every bird that, soaring, sings,
Each weed beside the wayside path,
Some hidden, heavenly meaning hath.
Some message every stone and fern,
If reverently we stoop to learn—
Message which we shall better know
When, at the summons sweet, we go
Beyond the earthly gloom and glow,
And see our life outside its pain,
Beyond its losses and its gain,
And read its puzzling problems plain.
Published in the Ladies’ Repository, April 1870; reprinted in April Days (1904), with the new title “Questionings.”
Getting Caught
Just down on the rim of the meadow green,
….In a cot ‘neath the elm-trees tall,
Lives the prettiest maiden the country round—
….Her name is Leonora Hall.
I met her one day on the river’s bank,
….Leaning over her fishing line,
And the sunshine seemed dim in the light of her eyes,
….And her lips were redder than wine.
How the little fish crowded to nibble her bait!
….“And no wonder,” I foolishly thought;
“Indeed, how could it but be a delight
….By an angler so fair to be caught!”
I helped her to carry the fish she caught,
….And, for all the pains that I took,
I found, when I left her, the treacherous maid
….Had fastened my heart on her hook.
Ah! then I repented my folly and strove—
….But too late—my lost heart to regain;
For, alas! it was fastened so fast that the more
….I struggled the greater the pain.
Then I wisely concluded it couldn’t be helped,
….So I ceased from my vain endeavor,
And went straight to the cruel Leonora and begged
….She’d keep what she’d caught forever.
Ah! was ever a maiden so wicked before?
….For ‘twas “only for sport she fished it,”
And she quickly released my heart; “for,” said she,
….“I have kept it as long as I wished it.”
Published in the Ladies’ Repository, May 1859.
December Rain
The day is dark: the half-forsaken street,
….Through dreary hours,
Gives scarce a sound save the continued beat
….Of ceaseless showers.
And silent here I sit alone and listen
….To the rain,
While countless drizzly drops glide down and glisten
….In chill disdain;
And in their waves of crystal coldness christen
My every thought, while here I sit and listen
….To the drear December rain.
I miss the ‘customed stir along the street,
….The happy hum
Of labor’s many voices, cheerful, sweet,
….That now are dumb;
I miss the well-known tread of eager feet,
….That only come
When days are soft and sunny, lightly tripping
….Up the hall;
I miss the waves of golden sunshine dripping
….Down the wall,
And creeping to my feet with welcome weird
….I miss, I miss a voice—
A voice that checked my grief, that kindly cheered
….Each day’s endeavor;
A voice—ah, pitying Heaven! that I shall hear
….No more forever.
So here I sit and listen, sorely weeping,
….Yet all in vain,
That one who should be here is sleeping—sleeping
….Where now the rain
Falls all unhindered, and the wind is sweeping
….With sad complain;
Where frigid-fingered frosts are slowly creeping
….Down in his grave.
O, Thou, who hast us all in thy kind keeping,
….Sweep from my brain
This swelling water-flood of ceaseless sorrow!
….Let some glad wave,
White-capped with light, steal through the rimy gloom,
….Prophetic of a morrow
….Void of pain,
And blest with springing bloom.
Through mist and falling rain, from far, I hear
….A note of song,
A joyful note, soft-keyed, distinct and clear,
….Such as belong
To bowers of brightness and the bloomy hours
….Of summer morn,
Yet sounding loud above the blasting showers
….December-born.
O! never June, in all her reign of balm,
….With kisses warm,
Won sweeter note than this, now rising calm,
….Triumphant o’er the storm.
Listen and learn a lesson, O, my soul!
….Thy grief give o’er;
And, with believing, quaff Hope’s brimming bowl,
….And faint no more.
Beyond these stormy skies lie realms of calm;
….Then, singing, soar,
Larklike, above thy pain; pluck leaves of palm
….On some still shore
Far toward the limit of thy highest hope;
….Lo! light will pour
Along thine upward flight until it ope
….To paths untried before.
Published in the Ladies’ Repository, February 1857.
Fate
Sorrow knocked; I barred my door.
“Go,” I cried, “and come no more;
I have guests who, gay and sweet,
Cannot bear thy face to meet.”
But erelong from every room
Vanished light and warmth and bloom;
Hope and joy and young love went,
And, late lingering, sweet content.
Then my door I opened wide:
“Sorrow, haste to come,” I cried;
“Welcome now, no more to roam:
Make henceforth my heart thy home.”
Published in the Atlantic Monthly, April 1878
Biographical Sources:
William Turner Coggeshall, The Poets and Poetry of the West: With Biographical and Critical Notices (Columbus, Ohio: Follett, Foster and Company, 1860), 676; Frances E. Willard, Glimpses of Fifty Years: The Autobiography of an American Woman (Boston: Geo. M. Smith & Co., 1889), 101, 170-173; Frances E. Willard, A Classic Town: the Story of Evanston by an “Old Timer” (Chicago: Woman’s Temperance Publishing Association, 1891), 227-28; Guy S. Rix, History and Genealogy of the Eastman Family of America: Containing Biographical Sketches and Genealogies of Both Males and Females (Concord, N. H: n. p., 1901), 330-331; Rev. William I. Ward, “A Rare Spirit Hears the Master’s ‘Well Done!’” Zion’s Herald, December 1, 1915; “$15,000 Scholarship Established at N.U. in Honor of Teacher,” Chicago Daily Tribune, June 2, 1947, 28; Lydia Jones Trowbridge, Frances Willard of Evanston (Chicago: Willett, Clark & Company, 1938), 30; Carolyn DeSwarte Gifford, Writing Out My Heart: Selections from the Journal of Frances E. Willard 1855-96 (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1995), 80-81.
Forgotten Poets 
You must be logged in to post a comment.