ing through the grounds, announces the passage of a body to its burial-home. Another deep forest, in this vicinity, tempts us to another stroll; but we are already exhausted with our rambles, and must forbear. The beauties of Cypress Hills can be ascertained and appreciated only after several visits. Each heighten the favorable impressions of the last. And in saying this, we have paid it the highest tribute of admiration.

The Association, notwithstanding the vast capital and labor which they have bestowed upon this cemetery, contemplate still greater improvements. Among the plans, either going into execution at the present time, or soon to be carried out, we will hint at the following: The construction of a splendid park of six acres near the centre of the cemetery. The land is now being drained by a conduit five hundred feet in length. When dry, it will be cleared of most of its trees and undergrowth, circled by ornamental iron fence, and stocked with deer. It will be—and that at no distant period-one of the most beautiful spots on the ground. The Company also have it in contemplation to erect a fountain near the Keeper's Lodge, at the Northern Entrance. The water will be supplied from a neighboring lake, of sufficient height above the spot to throw a very imposing jet. But the most extensive project, now under consideration, is the construction of a tunnel from the park through a high hill to Crescent Lake. These are the chief alterations for the better already projected; but there are, of course, hundreds of little

things, the details of improvement, which the Company are by no means neglecting in their devotion to weightier schemes. We can only say, in brief, that they design to make Cypress Hills, in point of Art, as it already is in its natural endowments, the model cemetery of the world.

[From the Morning Star.]

THE CYPRESS HILLS CEMETERY.

INSCRIBED TO WILLIAM MILES, ESQ.

Ir thou hast not a sense of tenderness,

Of grandeur, of the lovely light that shines

Where hearts have buried hearts, then pause not here:
But pause if thou hast these.-If these thou hast,

Much more thou hast: thine is the strength

Of that which gives a glory and a love

To this our poor, sad, dim mortality.

More solemnly than Cathedral organs, here

The South wind woos thy step-the South wind made
For beauty and a still magnificence:

So enter in. Away unto the South,

Stretches the broad Atlantic. Lo! what Life!
The sails flash on, as if there were no Dead:

Such is the plan of Him who told the world
To move, nor heed the smiles and tears of those
Upon her bosom.-There the Neversink
Speaks to the sailor of his waiting home:
Look on the West, with congregated spires:
And now upon the living northwest gaze-
Behold the City of our World! Behold

The restless tide of Life! Behold the Power
Whose Titan brain already meditates

Sceptres thrown down and mighty thrones upheaved,
As though a god awoke, and with one look
Redeemed the Universe-

Away! Away!

The Dead hold earnest converse with us now,
From all these swelling slopes and shadowy glens.
Listen! their awful voices slowly rise

Like the far voice of streams buried in caverns lone,
That would once more behold the beam of Day-

Here genius made a sacred place for us :
Here genius wreathed the melancholy vine:
Here genius placed the statues, like fond souls
Speaking to all who enter in our realm:
Here genius called the paths by tender names,
And immemorial: "Mary" hath her walk,
And sad "Ophelia," fair as sad, brings back
Remembrance of her sorrow; "Laura," here
Breathes o'er the passer-by the delicate old tones
That made her passionate Lover's harp a power:
The Hero hath his Mount-the Bard his Mound,
And in yon grove behold the "Mystery !"-
And therefore mothers come to kneel and weep
Over the graves where their young buds are laid;
And maidens come to weep their withered hopes,
With those whose hearts stern custom closes up
As pitiless frost the warm heart of the rose:
Heroes look on the Mount of Victory

Where WOODHULL's blood for vengeance mounted up
To Freedom's God; and smiling Poets see
That when their brothers join our realm,

They shall have flowers above their peaceful homes

So troubled in the devious life they lived;

And all the Poor may know that they shall sleep

As royally as Kings, amid these vales,

By Art and Nature made magnificent;

And Saxon and the Celt, the Frank, the Pole,
All nations in their life so hostile met-

Yes! they shall sleep with us, the Dead, the Dead
Who only are alive.

The voice is hushed,

While like a pall dread darkness takes the wood:
Yet a low murmur slowly, deeply floats
From yon tall Mount of Immortality*

Wreathed by the radiance of the rising moon-
But there is naught of mournful in its tone:
'Tis full of hope, and tenderness, and joy
And solemn ecstacy.

God of the Dead!

Here in the shadow of the awful Mount,

I thank thee for this vision. Nor thy stars,
Like souls, just issuing from yon cloudy sky;
Nor yonder sea, whose far sonorous roll
Tells of Eternity: nor the sweet sound,
And everlasting, that this lovely Earth
Makes in attunéd ears-nor these alone
Have taught us our great Immortality.
O, ye who have a doubt, with me ascend
This mighty mount; and—while the earnest moon,
Like a weird Sybil, white-lip'd with her awe,
Whispers some mystery to the trembling stars—
We'll hear that murmur still, and we will know
The Soul is his own teacher, and the Dead
Harmonious visitants.

Then come with me,

And on this mount sublimely pass the night.

* The name which the Directors have most appropriately given to the highest Hill in the Cemetery.

VII.

Epitaphs.

"EPITAPHS," says that elegant and powerful writer, JOHN BELL BOUTON," are, literally, 'sermons in stones,' and they are preached to us with a mighty though voiceless eloquence. Splendid mausoleums, towering funeral piles, may fitly commemorate the worth and glory of the departed, but it is from Epitaphs that we learn the tenderer, sweeter, more exalting lessons of the grave. Monuments have a mission, and a noble one. They typify the triumph of the soul over Death, and vindicate the incarnate majesty of the mouldering ashes beneath them. Their office is akin to that of the cypress, the cedar of Lebanon, the sycamore, the hemlock, spruce, and those other significant trees which Heaven seems to have ordained as natural cenotaphs for Man. Epitaphs are the flowers of the cemetery. They tell to the eye just what the rose, the lily, the daisy, the violet impress through the medium of a subtler sense upon the heart. Alas! the sweetest and most inspiring utterances of thought cannot surpass the mute power of their tender appeals:

"Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining,

Far from all temples, human or divine,

My soul would find in flowers of Thine ordaining,
Priest, sermon, shrine!'