Gone is our sister now, Heavenward tending, Mark with her cheek's rich glow, "Death now hath claimed his spoil, Fling the pall over her, Lap we Earth's lightest soil, Gently to cover her." Bind we long braids of pearl, Wreath round those folded hands, On her breast lying, Brightest of flow'ret bands, Sweet odors sighing. Short be the words we say, Spring flower's breath around, Guards of her silent grot, Music in waters' sound, Requiem her resting spot. COUNTRY VISITINGS. When midnight o'er the moonless skies Visions of long departed joys.-W. R. SPENCER. NoT a hundred miles from Boston, is the countryhouse of Mr. C. He was an acquaintance of mine in our younger days, and as I was about leaving the bustle and cares of the town for a month's residence at my aunt's in an adjoining country, he very civilly invited me to pass a week of it with some of our mutual friends at his residence. As I had often heard him speak of his beautiful place, and knew that his wealth and taste would adorn whatever it was lavished upon, I gladly accepted the invitation, and promised to be with him on the last of August. My visit with the good lady, my aunt, had been one of unalloyed enjoyment. Besides the pure breezes and healthful walks of the country, there was a peaceful ness and quiet sobriety about her house, which delighted me. The house in which she lived was one of those goodly old structures which are scattered here and there over the country, with long gable ends, and cornices fantastically carved of pigeon wings and birds' claws. Sheds of every length and hue were scattered around, beneath the eaves of which martins and doves had held for long years an undisputed possession. In front were two majestic elms intertwining their branches so as to form almost a bower over the whole courtyard, and a few rods west, a clump of firs covered a ragged rocky dell, where the crows claimed a prescriptive seigniory. Through this a dashing rivulet forced its way, fretting and chafing like an ill-curbed colt; but afterwards, by successive windings and more gentle falls, it grew quiet in its course, and gurgling pleasantly through a piece of downy meadow-ground, went through garden and lawn as still and dignified as the family steed. Below the garden, a little rustic paling enclosed a rude oak seat, over which bent an apple tree of favorite fruit, where I delighted, in my days of boyhood, to pore over the pages of Don Quixotte and Sir Charles Grandison, the only two works of fiction which my aunt's library contained. Within the house every thing was the pattern of neatness. The carpeted parlors and well-sanded halls looked as if no mudded foot had ever intruded within their sacred precincts, and the white-scoured dressers; the shining pewter; the untouched fire-set of mirrored brass; the old glasses and silver tankard, and spacious punch bowl, were the relics and glory of the hospitable mansion. Every thing about the establishment bears the impress of age, and yet, like my aunt herself, every thing is fresh and green in its antiquity. The butler is a gray-headed, stout veteran, who was out with her husband in the severe campaign of seventy-seven, and though now past eighty years of age, is as bustling and self-important as he was thirty years ago. He is the life of the house; waddles from room to room like the gray old gander in the poultry yard; stands behind my aunt's chair at dinner; chuckles with a sort of smothered laugh at her jokes; corrects her facts, and prompts her memory when she tells a story; talks much about the Major, my uncle; and wears his cockade and laced waistcoat to church of Sundays. The cook is a few years his junior, but she was born in the service of my aunt's father, who was the original owner of the estate, and so claims, not without many rebuffs, priority of occupancy. The very plough-boys, so they are called, are old men, far past the meridian of life; and the woman who comes every Monday morning to wash, has stood over the same tubs for six and thirty years. The horses are old, and the carriage is old; the cows, and sheep, and working cattle are all old; the steers long ago reached their majority, though it has never been acknowledged; and the frisking days of the colt have been gone for many years. Old Tiger, the watch-dog, whose toothless jaws still gum at the ragged beggar, seems oldest of them all, and of all, he only, shows that he is hastening to the bourne where his sire and grandsire, Tigers too, rest before him. My aunt has few neighbors, and fewer visitors. The parson is her guest every Sunday, and often smokes his pipe there on week-day evenings. She is the Lady Bountiful of the parish, and drives with her spiritual guide to visit the rich and comfort the mourner whoever they may be. Being a little liberally disposed in her religious creed, she and the parson, who is staunchly orthodox, have, oftentimes, disputes on the tenets where they differ. Methinks I see her seated in her straight-backed elbow chair, her spectacles raised upon her brow, and her knitting laid upon her lap, reading some new proof text on her side of the argument, to the grave old man opposite. The good man answers and smokes answers and smokes again, unravelling the knotty point, and rebutting every proof; while my aunt doubts more and more, over every fresh pinch she takes from her silver snuff box. It was here, that three weeks of my furlough from the city had passed away; when I bade my Aunt farewell, to spend the remainder of my month at the country seat of Mr. C. It was a beautiful day on which I arrived, and my reception was as cordial and open as I had expected. The beauty of the situation, the elegance of the mansion, the natural scenery of mountain and forest and waterfall, the park enclosed for deer, the smooth lawn and well-trimmed hawthorn, all |