BRAMBLE-RISE.

What changes greet my wistful eyes In quiet little Bramble-Rise, Once smallest of its shire? How altered 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 changed 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 the sticks are stunted: I'm sure these thistles once grew figs, These geese were swans, and once these pigs More musically grunted. Where early reapers whistled, shrill A whistle may be noted still,— The locomotive's ravings. New custom newer want begets,— My bank of early violets Is now a bank for savings! That voice I have not heard for long! So Patty still can sing the song A merry playmate taught her; I know the strain, but much suspect 'Tis not the child I recollect, But Patty,—Patty's daughter; And has she too outlived 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 That some grow wise, and some grow cold, And all feel time and trouble: If Life an empty bubble be, How sad are those who will not see A rainbow in the bubble! And senseless too, for mistress Fate Is not the gloomy reprobate That mouldy sages thought her; My heart leaps up, and I rejoice As falls upon my ear thy voice, My frisky little daughter. Come hither, Pussy, perch on these Thy most unworthy father's knees, And tell him all about it: Are dolls but bran? Can men be base? When gazing on thy blessed face I'm quite prepared to doubt it. 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,— If need be, share her sorrow! The wisdom of thy prattle cheers This heart; and when outworn in years And homeward I am starting, My Darling, lead me gently down To Life's dim strand: the dark waves frown, But weep not for our parting. Though Life is called a doleful jaunt, In sorrow rife, in sunshine scant, Though earthly joys, the wisest grant, Have no enduring basis; 'Tis something in a desert sere, For her so fresh—for me so drear, To find in Puss, my daughter dear, A little cool oasis!