GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE
They were a present from Miss Jewsbury, of whom mention is made
in the note at the end of the next poem. The fish were healthy to
all appearance in their confinement for a long time, but at last,
for some cause we could not make out, they languished, and, one of
them being all but dead, they were taken to the pool under the old
Pollard-oak. The apparently dying one lay on its side unable to
move. I used to watch it, and about the tenth day it began to
right itself, and in a few days more was able to swim about with
its companions. For many months they continued to prosper in their
new place of abode; but one night by an unusually great flood they
were swept out of the pool, and perished to our great regret.
THE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at heaven's gate she sings;
The roving bee proclaims aloud
Her flight by vocal wings;
While Ye, in lasting durance pent,
Your silent lives employ
For something more than dull content,
Though haply less than joy.
Yet might your glassy prison seem
A place where joy is known,
Where golden flash and silver gleam
Have meanings of their own;
While, high and low, and all about,
Your motions, glittering Elves!
Ye weave--no danger from without,
And peace among yourselves.
Type of a sunny human breast
Is your transparent cell;
Where Fear is but a transient guest,
No sullen Humours dwell;
Where, sensitive of every ray
That smites this tiny sea,
Your scaly panoplies repay
The loan with usury.
How beautiful!--Yet none knows why
This ever-graceful change,
Within your quiet range.
Is it that ye with conscious skill
For mutual pleasure glide;
And sometimes, not without your will,
Are dwarfed, or magnified?
Fays, Genii of gigantic size!
And now, in twilight dim,
Clustering like constellated eyes,
In wings of Cherubim,
When the fierce orbs abate their glare;--
Whate'er your forms express,
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are--
All leads to gentleness.
Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure,
Your birthright is a fence
From all that haughtier kinds endure
Through tyranny of sense.
Ah! not alone by colours bright
Are Ye to heaven allied,
When, like essential Forms of light,
Ye mingle, or divide.
For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled
Day-thoughts while limbs repose;
For moonlight fascinations mild,
Your gift, ere shutters close--
Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise;
And may this tribute prove
That gentle admirations raise
Delight resembling love.