 | London lyrics |  |
21
BRAMBLE-RISE
What changes greet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
The pride of all the shire;
How alter'd is each pleasant nook;—
And used our dumpy church to look
So dumpy in the spire?
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
The pride of all the shire;
How alter'd is each pleasant nook;—
And used our dumpy church to look
So dumpy in the spire?
This Village is no longer mine;
And though the inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger;
The haunt of butterflies and bees
Is now a street, the cottages
Are cottages no longer.
And though the inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger;
The haunt of butterflies and bees
Is now a street, the cottages
Are cottages no longer.
The mud is brick, the thatch is slate,
The pound has tumbled out of date,
And all the trees are stunted:
Surely these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once the pigs
More musically grunted.
The pound has tumbled out of date,
And all the trees are stunted:
Surely these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once the pigs
More musically grunted.
22
Where boys and girls pursued their sports
A locomotive puffs and snorts,
And gets my malediction;
The turf is dust—the elves are fled—
The ponds have shrunk—and tastes have spread
To photograph and fiction.
A locomotive puffs and snorts,
And gets my malediction;
The turf is dust—the elves are fled—
The ponds have shrunk—and tastes have spread
To photograph and fiction.
Ah, there's a face I know again,
There's Patty trotting down the lane
To fill her pail with water;
Yes, Patty! but I fear she's not
The tricksy Pat that used to trot,
But Patty,—Patty's daughter!
There's Patty trotting down the lane
To fill her pail with water;
Yes, Patty! but I fear she's not
The tricksy Pat that used to trot,
But Patty,—Patty's daughter!
And has she, too, outlived the spells
Of breezy hills and silent dells
Where childhood loved to ramble?
Life then was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.
Of breezy hills and silent dells
Where childhood loved to ramble?
Life then was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.
Whence comes the change? 'Twere simply told;
For some grow wise, and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble:
If Life an empty bubble be,
How sad for those who cannot see
The rainbow in the bubble!
For some grow wise, and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble:
23
How sad for those who cannot see
The rainbow in the bubble!
And senseless too, for Madam Fate
Is not the fickle reprobate
That moody folk have thought her;
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My little friskful Daughter.
Is not the fickle reprobate
That moody folk have thought her;
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My little friskful Daughter.
Come hither, Fairy, perch on these
Thy most unworthy father's knees,
And tell him all about it.
Are dolls a sham? Can men be base?
When gazing on thy blessed face
I'm quite prepared to doubt it.
Thy most unworthy father's knees,
And tell him all about it.
Are dolls a sham? Can men be base?
When gazing on thy blessed face
I'm quite prepared to doubt it.
Though life is call'd a weary jaunt,
Though earthly joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis;
It's pleasant (if I must be here!)
To find with Puss, my daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!
Though earthly joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis;
It's pleasant (if I must be here!)
To find with Puss, my daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!
24
Oh, may'st thou some day own, sweet Elf,
A Pet just like thy winsome self,
Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
Content to use her brighter eyes,
Accept her childish ecstasies,—
If need be, share her sorrow.
A Pet just like thy winsome self,
Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
Content to use her brighter eyes,
Accept her childish ecstasies,—
If need be, share her sorrow.
The wisdom of thy prattle cheers
My heart; and when, outworn in years,—
When homeward I am starting,
My Darling, lead me gently down
To life's dim strand: the skies may frown,
—But weep not for our parting.
My heart; and when, outworn in years,—
When homeward I am starting,
My Darling, lead me gently down
To life's dim strand: the skies may frown,
—But weep not for our parting.
April 1857.
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