That goal would be vain where the guerdon was dross,
So come whence they may they must come by a loss:
The tree was enticing,—its branches are bare;
Heigh-ho! for the promise of Vanity Fair.
My son, the sham goddess I warn thee to shun,
Beware of the beautiful temptress, my son;
Her blandishments fly,—or, despising the snare,
Go laugh at the follies of Vanity Fair.
That stupid old Dives, once honest enough,
His honesty sold for Stars, Ribbons, and Stuff;
And Joan’s pretty face has been clouded with care
Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair.
Contemptible Dives!—too 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.