AFTER.
On reading Louis Botha’s article in the Contemporary
Review for the month of
November, 1902.
How came his right that he should dare,
He, and his two mates-at-noble-arms,
To stand erect, and not with bowed heads and bare,
Beg mites for build-up of their homestead-farms,
Their hearths which Ravage blacked with sorry flame,
Their children stricken within pesthouse gates,
And all rank glories wherein Empire came,
To foist her mission on these latter dates;
Not be lions of the hour, garb their pride
In neat devisings at the conqueror’s hands;
But let their prayer on yon throb go wide
Which fellows justice with the far-offs’t strands?
O, hearts, whose fires whet the valiant sword;
Pushed how to heave the suppliant word!
O, guilty act! and worthy Fortune’s frown,
That ye should speak, let yet accord
This worthy latter with your erst renown!
Still trust, stand nobly up, tho’ all seem down!
CHRISTIAN DE WET.[3]
One year later—on appearance of his “Three Years’ War.”
No book alone is this, but very life;
A throbbing volume with warm blood-beats writ,
To vouch whose pages did the brave deed sit,
His traits tho’ lurid with angry strife;
To blaze whose image did not Freedom first,
To her wide symbol, past best trick of art,
In quivering flame-strokes, as no imprint durst
Trace plain each feature on her mighty heart?
Nay, in her fierce love, so drew them, that to mortal sight
They took on the lineaments of horrid hate,
What were but flashes of her beaconed light,
The fervent visions of large things that wait;
For this man did love her for no worldly store,
Might never derogate with venal breath
The divine injunction which her message bore
To voice her biddings, yea, ’gainst grappling Death.
And, when such manhood cries you, “peace,” “no more,”
Shall not his foeman reach a brother’s hand,
Such day not with a double lustre pour
Its countenance o’er the darkened land?
Shall Love not smile and understand?
[3] A sequel to lines on page [84].
SINE DIE.
Full zodiacs three the fiery sun,
Thro’ maze of stars, his web has spun,
Since War’s late grimy page begun
To blaze its line—the bloody hand
Whose lurid strokes bade Peace to stand.