Mourn, all ye mountain nils, whose crystal flow ' By pebbly merging soothes the summer gale!

Mourn all ye hills, Where cedars wave and tall pines darkly throw, From the grey rocks, their shadows down the vale. And all ye gardens, where the cultured flowers Of various climes perfume the vernal air, Mourn ye! Mourn all ye gentle showers!

Ye evening dews Drop diamond tears in morning's early hours,

Sparkling profuse, From lids yet heavy with the damps of night.

Hit step, which gave delight To the curved walk and tasteful lawn, no more Treads the crisped, gravel'd shore, Bord'rhig the grassy sward, with easy slope. The eye, the hand, the pen, are silent all! Taste mourns the graceful spirit that portray'd Her Hues of beamy in each varied shade,

Each slope and fall, Each "long-withdrawing vale"

And ivied wail, . Where wild birds build and tell the am'rous tale. Ye droop ug elms, and cedars dork, which sweep With pendant boughs the grassy verdure, deep,

Do ye not hear Her weep?

Downing ! Fair nature was to thee

A glorious Deity: Something akin to Godliness, and Love, And Art! ------to build her altars 'uealh the skies,

A Nymph of Paradise.

O tuneful streams and lawns of velvet green,

With elust'ring shrubs and bow'ring vines between;

Dark tow'riug firs, and Lebanon's own tree,

As once o'er sacred hills, droop solemnly!

The name of Downing whisper as ye wave;

And O ye winds! Blow lightly o'er his grave!

Each cot and stately hall, each liny bower, And each fair girl who loves to rear a flower; Each soul who seeks in Nature or in Art, To bear an humble or a lofty part, Put on the Cypress! Shroud in mourning weeds The casements dark, fur Rural Beauty bleeds ! Ami ye neglected shades - our forest wealth, No longer wearing glorious h'tea by stealth, Come boldly forth! - assert your noblest powers! Give us your stately forms - your brilliant flowers, But while you shade America's young homes,

When brilliant autumn paints each fading leaf, Give to the rust'ling wind as forth it roams,

A soft funereal tone of tender grief.

Artist and Scholar! Thou art fallen asleep,

In thy fair prime, Where the blue waters of the Hudson sweep. Alaa! no opening bud or swelling fruit can charm:

Nor votive rhyme Light the cold eye, the silent pulses warm.

We mingle tear with tear With mourning friends around thy early bier, And lay thy favorite rose upon thy breast.

Sweet be thy rest! And may that world where trees immortal grow,

Around thy spirit throw Their soft refreshing shudes, amidst the blest!

Weverton, Maryland, Aug. 17. J. C W.