I owe old Bliss some rubs, but pride Constrains me to postpone 'em, He taught me something, 'ere he died, About _nil nisi bonum_. I've met with wiser, better men, But I forgive him wholly; Perhaps his jokes were sad--but then He used to storm so drolly. I still can laugh, is still my boast, But mirth has sounded gayer; And which provokes my laughter most-- The preacher, or the player? Alack, I cannot laugh at what Once made us laugh so freely, For Nestroy and Grassot are not-- And where is Mr. Keeley? O, shall I run away from hence, And dress and shave like Crusoe? 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 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!