BRAMBLE-RISE

What changes greet my wistful eyes

In quiet little Bramble-Rise,

Once fairest of its shire;

How alter’ d is each pleasant nook,

The dumpy church used not to look

So dumpy in the spire.

This village is no longer mine;

And though the inn has chang’ d its sign,

The beer may not be stronger:

The river, dwindled by degrees,

Is now a brook,— the cottages

Are cottages no longer.

The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks,

The trees have cut their ancient sticks,

Or else those sticks are stunted:

I’ m sure these thistles once grew figs,

These geese were swans, and once those pigs

More musically grunted.

Where early reapers whistled — shrill

A whistle may be noted still,

The locomotives’ ravings.

New custom newer want begets —

My bank of early violets

Is now a bank of — savings.

Ah! there’ s a face I know again,

Fair Patty trotting down the Lane

To fetch a pail of water;

Yes, Patty! still I much suspect,

’ Tis not the child I recollect,

But Patty, Patty’ s daughter!

And has she too outliv’ d the spells

Of breezy hills and silent dells,

Where childhood loved to ramble?

Then life was thornless to our ken,

And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then

A rise without a bramble.

Whence comes the change?’ twere easy told

How some grow wise and some grow cold,

And all feel time and trouble;

And mouldy sages much aver

That if the Past’ s a gossamer,

The Future is a bubble.

So let it be, at any rate

My Fate is not the cruel Fate

Which sometimes I have thought her:

My heart leaps up, and I rejoice

As falls upon my ear thy voice,

My frisky little daughter.

Come hither, Puss, and perch on these

Your most unworthy Father’ s knees,

And try and tell him — Can you?

Are Punch and Judy bits of wood?

Does Dolly boast of ancient blood,

Or is it only “bran new”?

We talk sad stuff,— and Bramble-Rise

Is lovely to the infant’ s eyes,

Whose doll is ever charming;

She does not weigh the pros and cons,

Her pigs still please, her geese are swans,

Though more or less alarming!

O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf,

Some day a pet just like thyself,

Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;

Content to use her brighter eyes,

Accept her childish ecstacies,

And, need be, share her sorrow!

My wife, though life is called a jaunt,

In sadness rife, in sunshine scant,

Though mundane joys, the wisest grant,

Have no enduring basis:

’ Tis something in this desert drear,

For thee so fresh, for me so sere,

To find in Puss, our daughter dear,

A little cool oasis!