Sometimes, when in uphappy mood,
I on my limitations brood,
And think how narrow the confines,
In which the soul almost repines,
I turn again--just to behold
My finny friends of burnished gold.
How little is their rounded sphere,
Though rivers wide are rushing near!
How little chance themselves to be,
In freedom’s realm, the sunny sea!
I wonder not that mournful gape,
And rolling glance they seem to ape.
Yet, all the pity I bestow
Is tearless, since in heart I know,
It would be fatal for my fish
To leave the boun’dry of their dish,
For they would be an easy prey
To larger ones in stream or bay.
And then this moral comes to me,
While craving larger liberty;
It might be death the bounds to break,
Which fate and duty round me make,
So be content and get the best
Of what, perhaps, is but a jest.