MY SISTER'S GRAVE.
Tr was one of the last days of March. ‘The carth had already, for the most part, bared ite bosom to the revivi fying influences of the breezes of the vernal season, while the biilliancy of the few remaining spots of snow, aa they reflected the rays of the sun, now descending from his meridian, bespoke that they too must soon yield to the power of warmth. Not a cloud interrupted the mild beauties of the sky, while every tree, though as yet der fitute of the least signs of vegetation, seemed to smile with gladness, as it reflected the Creator's glories,
On such a day I was making one of my vacation rambles through the broad and beautiful valley of |-
Oo. c. - To the student whe has long been confined within the gloomy walls of College— who has been accustomed to ils dusky halls—to its rigid discipline—its stereotyped routine of duties—who ‘has been poring for montha over the musty, time-worn pages of ancient lore—to him, I say, nature has a sweet- ness—a delicious charm which it has te few. Like an uncaged bird his spirit soars away on gladsome pinions, revelling in thoso felicities peculiar to its being. What though the verdant@reen of May, with its host of flowers be wanting? He finds in his soul a chord which yields to the feeblest touch—a sympathy with the slightest externe! influence. He has a satisfaction in the joyful presages of such a day which others might not experience amid all the glories of summer—the ‘earth in its robe of green—the forest in its rich foliage, enlivened hy the music of the feathered choir,
To me, the scenes before mo had peculiar interest, This was my native valley. Those hills were the first objecta of my remembrance. Just below was the spot Tonce called home. *
Pensive andl solitary, 1 wandered on. ¥ bad visited, during the: day, some of my early companions; but although I had been absent for some time, I excused myself from tong calls: for notwithstanding that L am naturally fond of society, I felt a peculiar preference, that day, to being alone. There was no want of objects wilh which to occupy my thoughts. Every spot, every shrub was consecrated by some endearing recollection, There was the school-house, to which I had often re paired for the delightful cigagements of school; where I 60 often greeted the smiling countenance of my teacher —a man of a very different order of mind from that possessed by too many whose professed business it is to teach the young idea how to shoot.” He had an eye to perceive, a soul to appreciate the delicate workings of the young mind—he cherished with fondest care ite infant aspirations, directing them to the noblest objects, There was the play ground, where I had disported myself, during hours of respite, wilh my young mates.
FASHION. An
Tenuld even fancy that I heard the jolly shouts of the thoughtless group, as they, with elastic spirits, with hearts free from ease, bounded over the turf—while the thought occurred to me, where are they now 1—~and T need not say that the big tear frequently gushed from my eye. «
‘With such feelings, I at length found myself at the grave-yard, where the early settlers of the country, of whom were my paronts, had been accustomed to “bury their dead out of their sight.” This place—the abode of the depurted—though it has 0 often been celebrated in the lay of the poet, will ever afford new subjects of interest to the meditative imagination. But now I did not pause to reflect ghat in this spot might be loid
“Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;””
that in this yard, sequestered to be sure, where moul- dered the dust of those who had occupied the ordinary walks of life, might lay buried some one who, by due cultivation, and the favors of fortune, might have filled the chief offices of the nation, and moved in the highest walks of society—none of the ten thousand ordinary reflections did 1 indulge—there was one feeling which pervaded my whole oul—under whose influence I repelled every other impression, There, beneath that green eward, now nearly levelled with the adjacent ground—shaded by a broad marble slab, on which wero two inscriptions, lay-mingling with earth the remains of my only sisters !
My sisters! I atart at the sound of the faint whisper which escapes my lips, Were there ever those beings on earth of whom I could say—they are my sisters’ Ob, it must be a deceitful vision with which I am beguiled! It cannot be that ever the day was when I was thus bappy. :
I approached the head stone and read the inscriptions —their names, the times of their death, and their ages —a flood of subduing recollections came over my soul! I was but three yeats old when Anna, my elder sister, was buried, yet fresh in my memory were the cir- cumstances connected with the melancholy ceremony. There was the coffin slowly lowering into the grave— there the newly heaped up mound under which Cornefia had tain for three short weeke—there the sorrow-atricken parents, whom not the strong consolations of Christian ope could restrain from a flood of grief:—~yonder stood in @ row ten or twelve—I cannot now say whether lads or young men; but their situation I could point out exactly, and their very dress I could describe. The neighbors, young and old, were looking on with weeping eyes—for Annu, they say, was 2 lovely girl—she was beloved of all who knew her.
Cornelia was an infant of a few months when the iey bund of death was leid upon hee: Anna was eleven years old. Maving long been an only daughter, she �
