the edge of the bare precipice, at last is worn and weak;
while, one by one, the little threads give way, and they who watch above
in terror call to warn them of the danger. But in vain! no friendly
voice can stay their flushed success; till, at its height, the cord is
suddenly snapped, and crushed upon the rocks beneath they lie. You and I
will never go bird-nesting after this fashion, my dear Madam. Let us
hover then around the crags of life, and watch the twisting strands that
others, more adventurous than we, have risked themselves upon. Be ours
the part to note the breaking threads, and, with our words of kindly
warning, seek to save our fellows from a fall so dread.

And, if the ties of earth keep us from falling, so also do they keep us
from rising above the level of grosser things. They hold us down to the
dull, tedious monotony of worldly cares, aims, purposes. Like birds
withheld from flight into the pure regions of the upper air by cruel,
frightening cords, we fluttering go, stifled amid the vapors men have
spread, and panting for the freedom that we seek.

Madam, our bright-eyed little goat has, by this time, settled himself
calmly on the grass; and I see, near at hand, the shady groves where
King Tommy is wont to lead Mrs. A. and myself in his summer wanderings.
Let me hope that all our bonds may be those which hold us fast to peace,
content, and virtue; and that, when the silver cord which holds us here
to earth shall be loosed, we then on sweeping pinions may arise, pure
and untrammelled, into cloudless skies.

GIOTTO'S TOWER.

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet
By self-devotion and by self-restraint,--
Whose pleasure is to run without complaint
On unknown errands of the Paraclete,--
Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,
Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint
Around the shining forehead of the saint,
And are in their completeness incomplete.
In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,
The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,--
A vision, a delight, and a desire,--
The builder's perfect and centennial flower,
That in the night of ages bloomed alone,
But wanting still the glory of the spire.

PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS.

VI.

Brook Farm, _Oct. 9, 1841._--A walk this afternoon to Cow Island. The
clouds had broken away towards noon, and let forth a few sunbeams, and
more and more bl