

GOLD FISHES. 
Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, 
Weaving many a mazy dance, 
Seeming still to grow in size, 
When ye would elude our eyes. 
Pretty creatures! we might deem 
Ye were happy as ye seem, 
As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 
As light, as loving, and as lithe, 
As gladly earnest in your play, 
As when ye gleamed in fair Cathay ; 
And yet, since on this hapless earth 
There’s small sincerity in mirth, 
And laughter oft is but an art 
To drown the outcry of the heart, 
It may be that your ceaseless gambpols, 
Your wheelings, dartings, drivings, rambles, 
Your restless rovings round and round 
The circuit of your crystal bound, 
Is but the task of weary pain, 
An endless labor, dull and vain ; 
And while your forms are gayly shining, 
Your little lives are inly pining! 
Nay! but still I fain would dream 
That ye are happy as ye seem. 

















