13 APRIL 1918, Page 13

POETRY.

THE BOOKMAN'S TREASURE.

flowers° before his shelves with pensive look; " How oft," he mused, " his glances o'er them strayed, He who'd forget his dinner for a book, My son, that, bora not for the fighter's trsde, Had gladly mid his father's folios stayed, Loving their very forms for what they held, A bookman's bookish son—yet undismayed Left home and them by honour's call impelled.

But, since no more his loving gaze he'll set Upon his favourites, they uneasy grow; They fain would follow, new renown to get By aiding those convulsed in battle-throe.

Time, then, to part; their place no more is here."

He smiled—but, smiling, brushed away a tear.

H. C. MINCHIN.