The wave-wash brings sweet sleep down, from the summer skies,
Here laps the azure deep,
And through the weed the small crabs creep,
And safe from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep,
Sagacious _Punch_ reclines and woos benignant sleep.
II.
Why are we weighed upon with Politics,
And, utterly fatigued by "bores" and "sticks,"
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are "_such_ clever things!"
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one "Question" to another thrown?
Gulls, even, fold their wings,
And cease their wanderings,
Watching our brows which slumber's holy balm
Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should _Punch_ only toil, the top and crown of things?
III.
How sweet it were, dodging the urban stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half dream!
To dream and dream that yonder glittering light
No more shall top the tall Clock Tower's height;
To hear no more the party speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach;
(No, no, _not_ HICKS! Thank heaven, he's far away!)
To lend one's mind and fancy wholly
Unto the influence of the calmly jolly;
Forgetful, whilst the salt breeze round one rustles;
Of all the clamorous Congresses of Brussels,
Of all the spouting M.
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