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!
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