Volume 101 — MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.

There is a slumber here that softlier falls Than forty-winks where dull, dull Bills they pass; Oft have I drowsed within those dreary walls, Where brays the pertinacious party ass. Here sleep more gently on the spirit lies Than where the SPEAKER tells the Noes and Ayes. 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.

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?

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!

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.

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.

Such Lotos-eating all at times must seek! The Lotos blows by many an English creek. Punch is no "mild-eyed melancholy" coon, Born, like the Laureate's islanders, to moon In lands in which 'tis always afternoon. No, TOBY, no! Yet stretch your tawny muzzle Upon these tawny sands! We will not puzzle, For a few happy hours, our weary pates With Burning Questions or with Dull Debates. We have had enough of Measures, and of Motions, we, "Ayes" to starboard, "Noes" to larboard (in the language of the sea), Where the wallowing SEYMORE spouted like a whale, and COBB made free. Let us take our solemn davy, TOBY, for a space (Punch perceives complete approval in that doggish face)— Let us take our davy, TOBY—for a time, now mind!— In this briny Lotos Land to live and lie reclined, On the sands like chums together, careless of mankind!