Oh, were I rich!

“Oh, were I rich!  Such was my wish, yea such
 When hardly three feet high, I longed for much. 
  Oh, were I rich! an officer were I,
  With sword, and uniform, and plume so high. 
  And the time came, and officer was I! 
But yet I grew not rich.  Alas, poor me! 
Have pity, Thou, who all man’s wants dost see.

   “I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,
 A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,
  I at that time was rich in poesy
  And tales of old, though poor as poor could be;
  But all she asked for was this poesy. 
Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me! 
As Thou dost know, who all men’s hearts canst see.

   “Oh, were I rich!  Oft asked I for this boon. 
 The child grew up to womanhood full soon. 
  She is so pretty, clever, and so kind
Oh, did she know what’s hidden in my mind—­
  A tale of old.  Would she to me were kind! 
But I’m condemned to silence! oh, poor me! 
As Thou dost know, who all men’s hearts canst see.

   “Oh, were I rich in calm and peace of mind,
 My grief you then would not here written find! 
  O thou, to whom I do my heart devote,
  Oh read this page of glad days now remote,
  A dark, dark tale, which I tonight devote! 
Dark is the future now.  Alas, poor me! 
Have pity Thou, who all men’s pains dost see.”

Such verses as these people write when they are in love!  But no man in his senses ever thinks of printing them.  Here one of the sorrows of life, in which there is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that barren grief which the poet may only hint at, but never depict in its detail—­misery and want:  that animal necessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen leaf of the bread-fruit tree, if not at the fruit itself.  The higher the position in which one finds oneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering.  Everyday necessity is the stagnant pool of life—­no lovely picture reflects itself therein.  Lieutenant, love, and lack of money—­that is a symbolic triangle, or much the same as the half of the shattered die of Fortune.  This the lieutenant felt most poignantly, and this was the reason he leant his head against the window, and sighed so deeply.

“The poor watchman out there in the street is far happier than I. He knows not what I term privation.  He has a home, a wife, and children, who weep with him over his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is glad.  Oh, far happier were I, could I exchange with him my being—­with his desires and with his hopes perform the weary pilgrimage of life!  Oh, he is a hundred times happier than I!”

In the same moment the watchman was again watchman.  It was the shoes that caused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown to himself, he took upon him the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but, as we have just seen, he felt himself in his new situation much less contented, and now preferred the very thing which but some minutes before he had rejected.  So then the watchman was again watchman.