Part 1 (2/2)
Or join St. Blaise? No, Common Sense, Forbid that I should do so.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss As Paulet shaves his poodles!
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss-- Or get proposed for Boodle's.
We prate of Life's illusive dyes, Yet still fond Hope enchants us; We all believe we near the prize, Till some fresh dupe supplants us!
A bright reward, forsooth! And though No mortal has attained it, I still can hope, for well I know That Love has so ordained it.
PARIS, _November, 1864_.
BRAMBLE-RISE.
What changes greet my wistful eyes In quiet little Bramble-Rise, Once smallest of its s.h.i.+re?
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, p.u.s.s.y, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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!
APRIL, 1857.
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
The Widow had but only one, A puny and decrepit son; Yet, day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak, and small, A loving child, he was her all-- The Widow's Mite.
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