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Had caught the reflection and mirrored it there,
As bright and as melting as heaven.
Slow swung in the wind-wavered nest;
Almost to the blue of the blest; “The bells” that are rung by the breath of the breeze,
And “toll their perfume” as they swing;
And dance to whatever they sing;
Are blent with the breath of a prayer;
A vow that was broken, are there!
Along the bright trellis of air;
The ban and the blessing are there!
Whose woofing is netted with stars;
Just bending beneath the blue spars,
Where now are the vesper and vow-
That brought not a cloud o'er the brow,
Not wafted away, for the aspen is still ; Not fled on the wings of the hours;
Not hiding the heaven-lo! the stars in the clear; Not perished, but here on the flowers,
Those smiles of Divinity lighting the world, Whose breath is for ever a prayer;
Who blush without sinning, and blanch without fear; Oh! where should they be, if not there?
THERE is a beautiful significance in the fact that when Divinity would build a temple for Himself on earth, he commanded that it should rise without the sound of hammer, and so,
“Like some tall pine, the noiseless fabric grew.”
The HAMMER is the emblem of man's creations. About his rarest works you will find it; hidden in a corner, resting on a column, lying behind a statue ; it is some where. Heap about the pedestal whereon stands the “GREEK SLAVE" the chips and the chisels, the gravers and the hammers, and how is the magic of the marble diminished or destroyed! It is no longer a being waked from the sleep of creation, throwing off its Parian shroud, and only waiting the whisper of Omnipotence to breathe, but a stone, blasted, and pried, and tugged, and lifted from some body's quarry; perforated, and chipped, and hewn; modelled in clay by a man in an apron, and wrought out “ by the hardest” by macaroni-eating barbarians in short jackets and blue caps. The dead waking, the dumb eloquent, the silent thought shaping out and
indwelling the marble, all vanish, " like the baseless fabric of a vision,” at the sight of a hammer. The Yankee sees into it,' and 'guesses' a lathe could be made 'to turn the thing out in half the time, and is 'sure as preaching he was born to make it. He wonders if it couldn't be run' in a mould; if plaster wouldn't do as well; whether the least 'tich' of red paint wouldn't make her lips ‘kinder' human, and a pink skirt more like a Christian? He can't see why it should cost such a tarnal sight;' and where are the beauty and the poetry of the GREEK SLAVE? Ask, “ Where are the birds that sang an hundred years ago ?” as well.
In the construction of this great Temple of the World, find, if you can, a moulding, a cornice, an architrave, with a rivet in it; any puttying of nails, or hiding of seams, or painting over of patches. Oh! no; every thing is finished, no matter where, no matter how you find it. All the blue masonry of Night was done without trowel or hammer. No quick clip of scissors scalloping the leaves of ten thousand flowers; no ring from the mighty anvil, whence scintillate, nightly, the sparks of starry time; no brushes, or pencils, or patterns, lying about rose-trees and woodbines; no “staging" discovered round the
oak as it goes up; no mortising machines nor mallets beneath it, though the great arms securely fastened to the column, are swaying bravely aloft.
Who ever sat up late enough at night, or rose long enough before the sun in the morning, to find any thing unfinished? If a bud, 'twas done ; if a blossom, perfect; a leaf or a leaflet, alike nonpareil. Bid the “Seven Wise Men of Greece" sit in solemn conclave over a budded rose, and what one of them would dream there was any thing more to be done, any thing more to be desired ?
Who ever detected, any where, a leaflet half fashioned or a flower half painted ? a brush's careless
1 trail on some little thing that peeps out of the cleft of a rock, and dodges back again at a breath ; some little thing of no consequence, that no body hardly ever, if ever, sees? Ah! no; as delicately finished, fashioned, and perfumed, as if it had bloomed in the conservatory of a queen, and been destined for the wreath that encircles her brow.
Every thing of Heaven's handiwork is finished, from first to last; from the Plan of Salvation, 'finished upon Calvary, to the violet' finished,' that opens its blue eye
to the dew.
"Bugs” and Beauties.
For the last five minutes, a MILLER in a dusty suit of "silver gray” has been fluttering round the candle. Yesterday afternoon, his royal cousin, the BUTTERFLY, that some body, so Cowley-like, called “a winged flower," was fluttering round a sunbeam. But no dusty miller was this, in sober gray, for when Nature painted it, she spared no tint of the richest and rarest that would render it beautiful-that would “show” in the sun. There's a fellow in dark brown now, creeping over the sheet as I write. It stopped at the word, ‘Butterfly,' and crawled contemptuously over it. This Mr. Brown is never seen in the daytime, but looks well enough by lamplight, starlight, or moonlight. Any thing more would be useless, be
unsight, unseen,” as the boys say. Had it been other than a night-walker, it would have been spotted with gold, specked with vermilion, tricked out with indigo-blue legs, or rigged with transparencies. Nature is altogether an artist, and though with all the dyes of the rainbow at command, and to spare, exhibits a most remarkable and commendable economy