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.P.'s party tussles, Of all the noisy votaries of CARL MARX; Of all save slumber and Unmitigated Larks! IV. Dear are the memories of our wedded lives, Dear also are the outfits of our wives, And their huge trunks: but this is a sweet change! For surely now our household hearths are cold, Charwomen prowl thereby: our halls look strange, Our suites are swathed like ghosts. Here all is joy, And, by the stirless silence rendered bold, The very gulls stand round with furléd wings. What do _you_ think of it, TOBY, my boy? The Session's Bills are half-forgotten things. Is there discussion in our little Isle? Let Parties broken so remain. Factions are hard to reconcile: Prate not of Law and Order--by the main! There _is_ a fussiness worse than death Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Lost labour, and sheer waste of breath, Sore task to hearts dead beat by many wars, And ears grown dumb with listening to loud party jars. V. But propt on sand and pebbles rolly-olly How sweet (while briny breezes fan us lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a boat-side tarry, coally, To watch the long white breakers drawing slowly Up to the curling turn and foamy spill-- To hear far-off the wheezy Town-Crier calling, "Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" Truly, TOBIAS mine, This _solitude à deux_ is most divine; A Congress we--of Two; where no outfalling Is possible. Our Anti-Labour line Is wordlessly prolonged, stretched out beside the brine. VI.