The sardine in his oily den, his little house of tin,
Headless and heedless there he lies, no move of tail or fin,
Yet full as beauteous, I ween, that press'd and prison'd fish,
As when in sunny seas he swam unbroken to the dish.
A unit in the vasty world of waters far away,
We could nor taste his toothsome form, nor watch his merry play,
But, prison'd thus, to fancy's eye, he brings his native seas,
The olive-groves of Southern France--perchance the Pyrenees.
The brown sails of the fishing-boats, the lithe sea-season'd crew,
The spray that shakes the sunlight off beneath the breezy blue,
The netted horde that shames the light with their refulgent sheen--
Such charm the gods who dwell on high have given the chill sardine.
So when we find long leagues of smoke compacted in the air,
'Tis not the philosophic part to murmur or to swear,
But patiently unravelling, the threads will soon appear,
In cottage hearths, and burning weeds, and misty woodland sere.
The day is fading, all the West with sunset's glow is bright,
And island clouds of crimson float in depths of emerald light,
Like circles on a rippled lake the tints spread up the sky,
Till, mingling with the purple shade, they touch night's shore, and die.
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