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doth mourn for thee. There is no need For Man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail, As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise. The little plant that never sang before, Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell, Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee, As for a florist fallen. The ivy wreath'd Round the grey turrets of a buried race, And the tall palm that like a prince doth rear Its diadem neath Asia's burning sky, With their dim legends blend thy hallow'd name. Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make Whate'er it touch'd most holy. The pure shell, Laying its pearly lip on Ocean's floor, The cloister'd chambers, where the sea-gods sleep, And the unfathom'd melancholy main, Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps. Hark! from snow-breasted Himmaleh, to where Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud, From the scath'd pine tree, near the red man's hut, To where the everlasting banian builds Its vast columnac temple, comes a moan For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height An altar, and each cottage-home, the haunt Of Poesy.