“No, Leopoldine, that is unreasonable. Attracted by the advantages which you have received from Nature, he had hoped to have found in you, those also which you would have acquired, if my counsels could have had power to persuade you. Your want of information, your coquetry, the ridiculous importance you attach to your beauty, have convinced him that you could not be happy together. What do I say? You never can be happy with any one, unless you come to the resolution to count as nothing those charms so little durable, which sickness may destroy at once, and which time, in its default, is causing every instant to disappear. To adorn her mind, mature her reason, form her heart, are all things which the young female should not neglect to do, whether homely or handsome. That beauty, on which you have reckoned with so much confidence—to which you have sacrificed the sacred duties of friendship—in what way has it benefitted you? One who is neither young nor beautiful has carried away your conquest, although she, perhaps precisely, _because_ she dreamed not of doing it. Profit by this lesson, so as, during the beautiful years which remain to you, to instruct and correct yourself. Another Berville will, I hope, present himself, who, won like the first, by your external graces, shall recognize, on viewing you more nearly, those good qualities, more surpassingly beautiful.” Leopoldine opened her soul to her sister's persuasions; she followed her counsels with docility, and soon reaped the benefits. Stephanie became Madame de Berville, and continued to act as a mother to her sister till she too was married. The sufferings and the fatigues of maternity were not slow, when they came, in effacing the remarkable beauty of Leopoldine; but there remained to her so many precious qualities, so much of solid virtue—of the graces of the mind, that the loss of personal charms were scarcely perceived, and the young wife was neither less cherished by her family, nor less courted by the world, than if her beauty had been an abiding charm. {652} THE BARD'S FAREWELL. BY JOHN C. McCABE. Sweet Muse, I remember, when first to thy spell My young heart submitted—how bright was the dream! How I trembled with joy as thy murmurings fell On my ear, like the flow of a star-litten stream! This world is too cold for the spirit of song, 'Tis the child of a purer and holier sphere; It should live where oppression, nor malice, nor wrong, Dare wring from the dim eye of misery a tear. It should dwell where 'twas born—in the deeply blue skies, When from chaos our world sprang to beauty and light; When the “stars of the morning” in joyous surprise, Struck their harp strings of fire so holy and bright. It should dwell where the Cherubim strike their bold lyres— It should live where the Seraphim songs find their birth; It should breathe where the presence of Godhead inspires, But never, oh never, be dweller on earth.