London Lyrics Part 5

Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,- We go, we repent, we return there again; To-night you will certainly meet with us there, Exceedingly merry at Vanity Fair.

BRAMBLE-RISE

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!

OLD LETTERS

"Fragile creations of still frailer man, That men outlast, Though to eternity, from whence he came, The scribe be past.

O there are tongues within these dry brown leaves That speak as Autumns do; They cry of death and sorrow, To me-to you."

MR GEORGE THORNBURY.

Old letters! wipe away the tear, And gaze upon these pale mementoes, A pilgrim finds his journal here Since first he took to walk on ten toes.

Yes, here are scrawls from Clapham Rise, Do mothers still their school-boys pamper?

O, how I hated Doctor Wise!

O, how I lov'd a well-fill'd hamper!

How strange to commune with the Dead- Dead joys, dead loves, and wishes thwarted: Here's cruel proof of friendships fled, And sad enough of friends departed.

And here's the offer that I wrote In '33 to Lucy Diver; And here John Wylie's begging note- He never paid me back a stiver.

And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French Invasion; On looking back I acted like A donkey upon that occasion.

And here a letter from "the Row,"- How mad I was when first I learnt it!

They would not take my Book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.

And here a heap of notes, at last, With "love" and "dove," and "sever" "never"- Though hope, though pa.s.sion may be past, Their perfume is as sweet as ever.

A human heart should beat for two, Whatever say your single scorners, And all the hearths I ever knew Had got a pair of chimney corners.

See here a double violet- Two locks of hair-a deal of scandal: I'll burn what only brings regret- Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.

SUSANNAH

"My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent sh.o.r.e!

Shall we not meet as heretofore Some summer morning?

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning?"

C. LAMB.

Susannah! still that name can raise The memory of ancient days, And hearts unwrung: When all too bright our future smil'd, When she was Mirth's adopted child, And I-was young.

I see the cot with spreading eaves Embosom'd bright in summer leaves, As heretofore: The gables quaint, the pansy bed,- Old Robin train'd the roses red About the door.

A seat did most blithe Susan please, Beneath two shady elder trees, Of rustic make: Old Robin's handiwork again, He dearly lov'd those elders twain For Susan's sake.

Her gleeful tones and laughter gay Lent sunshine to a gloomy day, And trouble fled: Yet when her mirth was pa.s.sing wild, Though still the faithful Robin smil'd, He shook his head.

Perchance the old man harbour'd fears That happiness is wed with tears On this poor earth: Or else, may be, his fancies were That youth and beauty are a snare If link'd with mirth.

And times are chang'd,-how chang'd that scene, For mark old Robin's alter'd mien, And feeble tread.

His toil has ceased to be his pride, At Susan's name he turns aside, And shakes his head.

And summer smiles, but summer spells Can never charm where sorrow dwells, Nor banish care.

No fair young form the pa.s.ser sees, And still the much-lov'd elder trees Throw shadows there.