Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking,
And chatter and scream and bawl.

7. And the maidens earnestly listened,
Till, at last, we spoke no more;
The ship, like a shadow, had vanished,
And darkness fell deep on the shore.

HEINRICH HEINE.

LXXVI. SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.

SO! I have climbed high, and my reward is small.

Here I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me still. What clouds are gathering in the golden west, with direful intent against the brightness and warmth of this summer afternoon! They are ponderous air-ships, black as death, and freighted with the tempest; and, at intervals, their thunder, the signal-guns of that unearthly squadron, rolls distant along the deep of heaven.

2. These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor-methinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day long! - seem scattered, here and there, through the sky, for the repose of tired pilgrims. Yonder, again, is an airy archipelago, where the sunbeams love to linger in their journeyings through space. Every one of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped in radiance, which the slightest pressure might disengage in silvery profusion, like water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. Bright, they are, as a young man's visions, and, like them, would be realized in chillness, obscurity, and tears. I will look on them no more.

3. In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is this spire, I discern cultivated fields, villages, white country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid lakes,

and here and there a rising ground, that would fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea, stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue and calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow flits across its surface, and is gone.

4. Hitherward, a broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge of the harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and over it am I, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south. The stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from every door to the pavement.

5. Ornamental trees, the broad-leafed horse-chestnut, the elm, so lofty and bending, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others whereof I know not the names, grow thrivingly among brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun are intercepted by these green citizens, and by the houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant walk.

6. On its whole extent there is, now, but a single passenger, advancing from the upper end; and he, unless distance and the medium of a pocket spy-glass do him more than justice, is a fine young man of twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping his left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a glance before him. Certainly, he has a pensive air. Is he in doubt, or in debt? Is he, if the question be allowable, in love? Does he strive to be melancholy and gentlemanlike? Or, is he merely overcome by the heat? But I bid him farewell, for the present.

7. The door of one of the houses, an aristocratic edifice, with curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows, is now opened, and down the steps come two ladies, swinging their parasols, and lightly arrayed for a summer

ramble. Both are young, both are pretty; but, methinks, the left hand lass is the fairer of the twain; and though she be so serious, at this moment, I could affirm that there is a treasure of gentle fun within her. They stand talking a little while upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street.

8. Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding street, is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I have just noticed. Business, evidently, has its centre there, and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches, or in gaining them, when he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant country village, or shaded lake in the forest, or wild and cool seabeach.

9. I see vessels unlading at the wharf, and precious merchandise strewed upon the ground, abundantly as at the bottom of the sea, that market whence no goods return, and where there is no captain nor supercargo to render an account of sales. Here, the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils, and sailors ply the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries, long-drawn, and roughly melodious, till the bales and puncheons ascend to upper air.

10. At a little distance, a group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a warehouse. Grave seniors they are, and I would wager - if it were safe, in these times, to be responsible for any one that the least eminent among them might vie with old Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of the company. It is the elderly personage in somewhat rusty black, with powdered hair, the superfluous whiteness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships are wafted on some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, and his name is a 1 A character in Shakespeare's "Taming the Shrew."

familiar sound among the far-separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.

11. How various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling them! The newborn, the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many mansions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desperate, dwell together within the circle of my glance.

12. In some of the houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue, guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it is irrevocable. There are broad thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinctness, they would make their way in eloquence.

N the cross-beam under the Old South bell

ON

The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter, that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.

2. I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him, as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.

3. 'T is a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;

There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell,
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

4. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with "nine at night,"
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,

He broods on his folded feet unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast;
Then, drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

5. Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd, like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
And, daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

6. I would that, on such wings of gold,

I could my weary heart upfold;
I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved)

And while the world throngs on beneath,