Volume 150 — TO LUCASTA, FROM THE WARS.

Perusing the epistles I devotedly indite You long, I know, Lucasta dear, to see me as I write; Your fancy paints my portrait framed in hectic scenes of war— I'll try to show you briefly what my circumstances are. Your swain is now a troglodyte; as in a dungeon deep He who so worshipped stars and you must write and eat and sleep; Like some swart djinnee of the mine your sunshine-loving slave Builds airy castles, meet for two, 'neath candles in a cave. Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp, His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp; Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back, And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack. The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels; The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals; We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tell Except that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well. So when you feel for us out here—as well I know you will— Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still; Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored, But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored!