long!-would our Hunter, do you think, have changed fames with the tinker of the clock of Strasburg?

There is one little circumstance-most awkward word is that "circumstance"-which perhaps I should bid adieu to the Dews without noting: that they have sparkled for decades of centuries, and every body, from the bards of a thousand years to the last scribbler for a scrap-book, has likened them to every thing, and every thing to them, that is lucent and lovely, and blessed and beautiful; and YET, all the while, until a few days or so ago, no body knew where they were born, whether they rose, or fell, or flew, or, as children say, "just come o' themselves." And YET philosophers, or "so they say," gurgled Hebrew before Remus was "naughty" to his brother, and leaped Rome's wall.

Few there are, who dream how blessed and beautiful, sad and solemn, are the components of Dew; and here is a recipe therefor:

June Bews.

The breath of the leaves and the lyrics of dawn

Were floating away in the air;

The brooks and the birds were all singing aloud;

The violets looking a prayer,

With eyes that upturned so tearful and true,

Like Mary's of old, when forgiven,

Had caught the reflection and mirrored it there,
As bright and as melting as heaven.

The silvery mist of the red robin's song,

Slow swung in the wind-wavered nest;

The billows that swell from the forests of June,

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;

The brooks that are trolling a tune of their own,
And dance to whatever they sing;

The groan of the wretched, the laugh of the glad,
Are blent with the breath of a prayer;

The sigh of the dying, the whisper of love,

A vow that was broken, are there!

There dimly they float, 'mid the ripe, golden hours,
Along the bright trellis of air;

The smothered good-bye, and the whisper of love,
The ban and the blessing are there!

Cool fingers are weaving the curtains again,

Whose woofing is netted with stars;

The tremulous woods on the verge of the world,
Just bending beneath the blue spars,

Are valanced with crimson and welted with gold.
Where now are the vesper and vow-

Those spirit-like breathings of sadness and song,
That brought not a cloud o'er the brow,
Bedimmed not a beam of the bright summer morn?
Not wafted away, for the aspen is still;

Not fied 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?

Finished.

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.

you

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 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 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.