THOU discord in this choral harmony!
That dost profane the loveliest light and air
God ever gave: be still, and look, and listen!
Canst see yon fair cloud floating in the sun,
And blush not, watching its serener life?
Canst hear the fragrant grass grow up toward God,
With low, perpetual chant of praise and prayer,
Nor grieve that your soul grows the other way?
Forego that tone, made harsh by a hard heart,
And hearker, if you're not afraid to hearken,
Yon robin's careless carol, glad and sweet,
Mocking the sunshine with his merry trill!
Suppose you try to chord your voice with his;
But first, learn love and wisdom of him, lady!

voice

How dare you bring your inharmonious heart
To such a scene? How dare you let your
Talk out of tune so with the voice of God
In earth and sky; the balmy air about you
Is Heaven's great gift, vouchsafed to you to make
Vocal with all melodious truths, and you
Fret it with false words, from a falser soul,
And poison it with the breath of calumny!
Learn reverence, bold one, for true Nature's heart,
If not for that your sister woman bears!

For nature's heart, pleading in every wave,
That wastes its wistful music at your feet.

Take back your cold, inane and carping mind
Into the world you came from and belong to-
The world of common cares and sordid aims.
These happy haunts can spare you, little one!
The dew-fed grass will grow as well without you,
The woodland choirs will scarce require your voice,
The starlit wave without your smile will glisten,
The proud patrician trees will miss you not.

Go, waste God's glorious bon of summer hours
Among your mates, as shallow, in small talk
Of dress, or weather, or the last elopement!
Go, visit Barnum or the Chinese junk!
Go, mar the canvass with distorted face
Of dog or cat, or worse, profanely mock,
With gaudy beads, the pure light-painted flower!
Go, trim your cap, embroider your visite,
Crocher a purse, do any petty thing!

But in the name of truth, religion, beauty,
Let Nature's grand, rich mystery alone,

Nor ask such airs, such skies, to waste the wealth
They keep for nobler beings upon you!
Or stay, and learn of every bird and bloom
That sends its heart to Heaven in song or sigh,
The lesson that you need, the law of love!

ELLET.

"PRAY, can you tell me any thing of my accomplished friend, Isabel Carrington?" I asked, on my return to P- - after a year's absence. "I have been much distressed to learn of her father's misfortunes and death, and anxious to know what has become of her."

Mrs. Tarched her eye-brows, and replied, "I do not know."

"Not know, and you were so very intimate with her!"

She left P soon after her father's death," said another lady, "and is, I believe, living in C-, supported by her own exertions."

"Then nothing was saved to her out of her father's property?"

"Nothing at all."

"It is strange that she chose to quit this place," observed Mrs. T. There was a very good opening for the exercise of her talents. Mrs. and I would have exerted ourselves to get her a class in music, and one in drawing and fancy work. She might have maintained herself handsomely. But she was too proud, it appears, to earn her bread in the village where she once lived in luxury, and would go elsewhere."

"Although we all kindly called upon her, and offered our patronage," said another lady.

"That is what I call ingratitude," remarked a third; and the sentiment was echoed by a fourth and a fifth.

The advantages of remaining here were, no doubt, properly represented to her," I observed.

"Oh, certainly," answered Mrs. T—. “It would not do, of course, for us to notice her in the way we formerly did, when she was looked upon as an heiress, and was at the head of her father's fine establishment. The proper distinctions in society must be observed. But we would have sent our children to receive instruction from her."

"A great condescension, truly, toward a person you were once proud to claim as an acquaintance," said a lady, who had not before spoken, in a corner of the room. "But you are mistaken; Isabel Carrington is not dependent for a mainte

nance upon her own efforts. Her uncle has given her a home."

"Her uncle!" I repeated.

"Yes, her mother's half brother. He resides in C, and on the death of Mr. Carrington wrote to invite Isabel to his house."

"How generous, how kind!" remarked several of the company.

"In truth, Isabel may consider herself fortunate," observed Mrs. "I am slightly acquainted with Mr. Lantrem, her uncle. He has a large family of children, of his own; and it is very noble of him to give her a support."

"For my part," said a dowager-looking matron, "I do not like this living upon others. I should prefer independence with a mere crust. And with such talents as Isabel has, to be content to receive charity!"

The lady's opinion was well illustrated, for she had five great daughters, who dressed in the extreme of the fashion, on the means of their uncle ; for it was well known the mother never paid her debts.

"Very true," assented Mrs. T. "It would have been much more proper for Isabel to stay in P, and turn to her own resources, than to become a burden on those who have children of their own."

Perhaps Mr. Lantrem does not think her so," was the reply; "but he is not rich, and many have claims upon him. At any rate, it was generous of him to offer his niece a home; she is only to blame in having accepted it."

In the midst of my indignation at the exhibition of so much ill-nature, I was glad to hear the orphan had found a friend. Poor Isabel young and lovely as she was-possessing a rare beauty that made her an object for the shafts of envyrefined, delicate and sensitive-she needed the protection of one who could stand in the place of a parent. How charmingly she had borne prosperity! With what grace and dignity she had presided over her father's house, (her mother had

been deceased many years,) fulfilling every duty, yielding all that could be required to the claims of society, yet finding time for the cultivation of those mental acquirements which were to her a pure source of happiness! She was both thoroughly and brilliantly accomplished, possessing exquisite taste as well as scientific knowledge in music; an artist in drawing and painting, mistress of the French and Italian languages, and well acquainted with English literature in the works of the best authors. In fancy work and in dress her taste was so perfect that she was consulted as an oracle by all the young ladies of her native village, and her judgment never failed to settle any disputed question.

More than two years afterward I chanced to be in C. A large party was given the evening of my arrival, and I went, in the expectation of seeing Isabel, as I learned that there was an intimacy between the family and that of her uncle. Mr. Lantrem and his wife were introduced to me. He was a middle-aged gentleman, of very urbane manners, and his wife a lady-like person, evidently in delicate health, with a soft voice and a sweet smile. The appearance of both pleased me, and I augured well for the happiness of the orphan girl.

She was not there; and in answer to my inquiries, her aunt informed me she was well, but seldom went out. I heard no one else speak of her.

The next morning I called at Mr. Lantrem's house to see my friend. As I entered, I heard the sound of a piano, and a sweet voice singing. The song ceased when the drawing-room door opened. Isabel was there, as lovely as ever, though much thinner than when I last saw her. She wore the same bright smile, however, and assured me she was happy. One of her young cousins had been engaged with her music lesson, and she remained, as if expecting me to take leave soon, while Isabel took up some work-a child's dress-and sewed while we talked of past times. I invited her to spend the evening with me; but, after some hesitation, she excused herself, saying that her aunt was engaged to go out, and she should be obliged to remain with the children. Nor could she accept an invitation to a drive in the country on the following morning. The children had their lessons. I saw that my presence had been an interruption, and departed, promising soon to call again.

The same afternoon I met Isabel walking out. She was accompanied by the four youngest of her uncle's children, three girls, and a boy of eight. She showed them to me, smiling, and said she had promised them a walk on the hill, where they were to gather flowers for mamma's vases.

I soon discovered that the time of my young friend was completely occupied with her cousins, Mrs. Lantrem having neither leisure nor health to attend to the education of her children, and being prejudiced against schools. The eldest of eight, a girl of fifteen, was at an age to profit most by the lessons of Miss Carrington. Her mornings were devoted to teaching, her afternoons to music lessons and walking with her pupils, and in the evenings they were left under her care, their mother, when not engaged in visiting or receiving company, usually retiring to her own room for the sake of quiet. She assisted, too, in superintending their dress and employment. The children were all so fond of "cousin 'Bel!" and she seemed to have such pleasure in instructing them! It was so much better than to intrust to a stranger the formation of their young minds!

It was certain Isabel take pleasure in thus imparting knowledge to those she loved. And the constant occupation of her time prevented the indulgence of painful memories. She assured me she was happier than she could have expected to be, after the loss of her beloved parent. But there were enjoyments for which she was fitted, of which she never partook. So strictly had she devoted herself to her self-imposed duties, that no time was left for amusements or society; and her aunt and uncle, though they sometimes asked her to accompany them, and playfully rallied her on having grown thin and pale from too much confinement, never insisted on her sacrificing, in any instance, the wish for retirement that was but natural in her desolate condition.

"You must positively leave your duties awhile, Isabel," I said to her one day, "and go this Springs. Your health is giving

summer to

way."

My uncle is very kind. He gave me a home when I was destitute"-her eyes filled with tears"and suffers me to want for nothing. I could not think of encroaching on his generosity."

"His generosity!" I involuntarily repeated.

Last summer," she said, "I spent three months in the country."

"But it was to take charge of three of the children, who were expected to benefit by the air. You then had as little opportunity for recreation as now."

dropping her eyes on her work, as if desirous of fixing the idea firmly in her mind. "I owe much, very much, to him."

It was plain that Isabel thought herself the obliged person. With the delicacy of a generous nature, she dwelt on what she received, overlooking what she gave. The articles of dress bestowed were always in the way of presents, and were received as favors by her. She never considered herself entitled to them, nor did it occur to her that she was rendering far more than an equivalent. Her talents, her accomplishments, her time and energies, were all devoted to her uncle's family; and all she could do seemed insufficient to show her gratitude. She was, in fact, a governess, without the salary her services merited. With resources that could have commanded independence anywhere, all tasked to their utmost, she was weighed down by a perpetual sense of obligation.

Mr. and Mrs. Lantrem were far from imagining they were wronging their orphan niece. They regarded her, they said, as one of their own children. They considered her avoidance of society as a matter of simple choice, not as the result of a feeling of inferiority, growing out of morbid sensitiveness and mistaken delicacy.

"What salary do you pay Miss Carrington?" asked a blunt man once. Mr. Lantrem indignantly replied, that his niece was no hired governess. It would have been better for her if she had been.

Some equally inconsiderate or impertinent person offered Isabel a situation in his family, with a salary of six hundred dollars, exclusive of board; but Mr. Lantrem regarded the offer as an insult, and his niece was easily persuaded to think its acceptance would be a degradation.

There was a fancy ball given in C————, and Isabel's taste and skill were in requisition for the ar

rangement of costumes for her aunt and the eldest daughter.

"Is it not provoking," asked Mrs. Lantrem with a smile, " that Isabel will not be persuaded to go?"

"She does not care for society, though we have given her every advantage, as if she had been our own daughter."

The aunt looked upon herself as the benefactress, not the debtor. Many had been the praises lavished on her as well as the generous Mr. Lan trem, when Isabel first came to his house, for their disinterested benevolence.

Some time after I heard of the marriage of Isabel. Her husband was a man of coarse tastes and selfish character, and altogether unfit for companionship with so gentle and refined a being. She was not happy with him. People said they did not pity her, for she ought not to have quitted such. a home as she had, to marry such a man. They knew not, in "giving a home," what a sacrifice o' pride and feeling had been exacted; they knew not how painful the position had been, in which. nothing she could do could be considered an equivalent for what she received; they took not inte account the sinking of the spirit under the sense of dependence, the weariness of the heart, the fail ing of energies, the paralysis of will and judgment under which she had gradually lost the power to sustain herself, so that from any change in he mode of life relief was expected. Her uncle was displeased at the match, and there was little intercourse afterward between them. His daughtersadly missed "cousin Bel," and showed in their advancement the fruit of her devotion to them; but they seldom named her, and always thought her very ungrateful in marrying contrary to papa's advice, when he had been so very kind in "giving her a home."

OUR beloved readers do not know it-and will not know it until we tell them-but it is nevertheless true that the pictured representation of a lady, in the engraving, is a portrait ; even the portrait of one whose name is known, we may probably say, wherever the English language is read or spoken. And a somewhat remarkable feature of the case is, considering the wide-spread celebrity of the lady in question, and that her celebrity is of many years' standing, that never before, so far as we know or believe, has any portrait of her been produced, either on paper or canvass, or in marble, plaster, clay, or Windsor soap. [A handsome bust of Washington, life size, in the latter material, has adorned a shop window in Broadway for some months past; so our reference to soap must not be taken as a mere flight of fancy.]

But we will not tantalize the gracious lady, whose eye is now glancing adown this page, by longer dealing in mysterious generalities. The lady in the picture is HALLECK'S FANNY-she who

"St. Paul's tolled one-and, fifteen minutes after,
Down came, by accident, a chandelier;

The mansion tottered. from the floor to rafter-
Uprose the cry of agony and fear,

And there were shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering,
Beyond the power of writing, or of uttering.

Why the artist has thought proper to designate the subject of his picture "The Omen," will be learned from the CLXIIIrd stanza, which says:

"That evening, with a most important face

And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful, 280

A notary came-sad things had taken place-
My hero had forgot to "do the needful;"
A note, (amount not stated,) with his name on't,
Was left unpaid-in short he had stopped payment."

It is a moot question with us, at this present moment, whether there is a reader of the Columbian, gentle and fair, or stout and manly, who has yet to make acquaintance with that same universally lauded poem called Fanny. If we could be sure that there were any considerable number of such we would tell the "story" in plain prose, just to aid in securing a due appreciation of the picture; but, being in doubt-in fact strongly inclining to believe that every body has read what all who have read so eagerly admire, we are deterred by the consideration that it were little less than literary sacrilege to produce a mere skeleton of so charming a creation-leaving out all the wit, and humor, and fine playful satire, and occasional touches of genuine pathos, that constitute its real charm. And then all those felicitous allusions to people and things, floating, when the poem was written, on the top wave of fashionable notoriety, or notoriety of some other sort-allusions only to be understood and enjoyed in all their force and beauty by contemporaries, though not absolute enigmas even to those of a later day-how would it be possible to dress them up in any but the poet's own language without making them as flat and wearisome as a bill in Chancery? How many of those who have come upon the stage since we began to think of going off would enter into the spirit of the stanzas referring to Dr. Mitchill, and good old Mr. Lang, and Lynch the wine merchant, and Guillé the aeronaut, and Mr. Gelston the Collector, and John Targee, a name once great in the annals of Tammany, and Vandervoort and Flandin, years agone the precursors of marble-palace Stewart?

Ah, it makes us melancholy to review this long list of notables, all gone to their graves-we must make an end. J. I.