oo credulous Joan!
Yet each has a Vanity Fair of his own;--
My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,
Myself, I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.

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