Volume 150 — THE SOLDIER'S SPRING.

On stormy days I get quite warlike; I find it easy to be fierce In winter, when the land is more like The Arctic Pole, with winds that pierce; With James for foe and all the meadows mired I feel in concord with the wildest plan, And grudge no effort that may be required To enfilade the man. But now how hard, when Spring is active, To utter anything but purrs; With all the hillside so attractive How can one concentrate on "spurs"? And oh, I sympathise with that young scout Whom anxious folk sent forth to spy the foe, But he came back and cried, "The lilac's out! And that is all I know." They ask me things about my picket, And whether I'm in touch with whom; I want to lie in yonder thicket, I only wish to touch the bloom; And when men agitate about their flanks And say their left is sadly in the air, I hear the missel-thrush and murmur, "Thanks, I wish that I was there." When we extend and crawl in grim rows, I want to go and wander free; I deviate to pluck a primrose, I stay behind to watch a bee; Nor have the heart to keep the men in line, When some have lingered where the squirrels leap, And some are busy by the eglantine, And some are sound asleep. And always I am filled with presage That, some fair noon of balmy airs, I shall indite a rude Field Message If Colonels pry in my affairs; Shall tell them simply, "It is early May, And here the daffodils are almost old; About that sentry-group I cannot say—— In fact it leaves me cold." But, strange, I do not think the enemy In Spring-tide on the Chersonnese Was any whit less vile or venomy When all the heavens whispered Peace; Though wild birds babbled in the cypress dim, And through thick fern the drowsy lizards stole, It never had the least effect on him— He can't have had a soul.