Observe with what awakened powers
The vulgar Sun resumes the right
Of rising in the hallowed hours
Of night.
Bound to the village water-wheel,
The motive bullock bows his crest,
And signals forth a mute appeal
For rest.
His neck is galled beneath the yoke:
His patient eyes are very dim:
Life is a dismal sort of joke
To him.
Yet one there is, to whom the ox
Is kin; who knows, as habitat,
The cold, unsympathetic box,
Or mat;
Who urges on, with wearied arms,
The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep,
Nor dares to contemplate the charms
Of sleep.
Now 'mid a host of lesser things
That pasture through the heaving nights,
The sharp mosquito flaps his wings,
And bites;
With other Anthropophagi,
Such as that microscopic brand
The common Sand-fly (or the fly
Of sand),
Who, with a hideous lust uncurbed
By clappings of the frequent palm,
Devours one's ankles, undisturbed,
And calm.
The scorpion nips one unaware:
The lizard flops upon the head:
And cobras, uninvited, share
One's bed.
Oh, if I only had the luck
To feel the grand Olympic fire
That thrilled the Greater when they struck
The lyre!