Removed from his sires by long stretch of years,
Yet so closely virtued, to their wisdom bred,
Their bloods long wasted, but which then ran red,
Their dogged valors, which had now been fears,
Are still his coaches and untimely peers,
Sit at his board, carve at the ghostly spread,
Flout tame the sweeter wine, for which the ages bled,
And cups paid bitter down in price of tears,
As, rising to his call, they quench their eerie fast,
And toast, in heady measures of a wormy Old,
’Gainst newer truths that mock their pledgescold,
This, their own grim shadow from a weary past.
And yet, if were their eyes awake, should they not grow
To keener vision, should a cuter ear
Not catch Time’s footfall, nor so dare the Law,
Which, how so trespass do impugn it here—
As if its charter on mere probate ran—
Stars yet Time’s reaches since his maze began,
Illumes the pathway of the utmost sphere:
Yon law of Free, within whose widening groove,
For franker answer ’tward the Life, ’tward all—
Some response more worthy of the conscious soul—
God, man, and thing, and Nations move?
Ay; should they not wonder at that slow-to-learn will,
Heir to large occasions, but to spurn them still?
Yet so closely virtued, to their wisdom bred,
Their bloods long wasted, but which then ran red,
Their dogged valors, which had now been fears,
Are still his coaches and untimely peers,
Sit at his board, carve at the ghostly spread,
Flout tame the sweeter wine, for which the ages bled,
And cups paid bitter down in price of tears,
As, rising to his call, they quench their eerie fast,
And toast, in heady measures of a wormy Old,
’Gainst newer truths that mock their pledgescold,
This, their own grim shadow from a weary past.
And yet, if were their eyes awake, should they not grow
To keener vision, should a cuter ear
Not catch Time’s footfall, nor so dare the Law,
Which, how so trespass do impugn it here—
As if its charter on mere probate ran—
Stars yet Time’s reaches since his maze began,
Illumes the pathway of the utmost sphere:
Yon law of Free, within whose widening groove,
For franker answer ’tward the Life, ’tward all—
Some response more worthy of the conscious soul—
God, man, and thing, and Nations move?
Ay; should they not wonder at that slow-to-learn will,
Heir to large occasions, but to spurn them still?
PEACE PENDING.
Vae Victis! Nay, what Triumph rings
Exultant with that haughty word?
To grace its clarion, tempering brings
No music of a nobler chord?
Exultant with that haughty word?
To grace its clarion, tempering brings
No music of a nobler chord?
Twice trophied, not what gentler strain?
Which, wiped no blot its honor caught,
Would, rank at heart, with flustered brain,
Still foul the cheer kind victory brought?
Which, wiped no blot its honor caught,
Would, rank at heart, with flustered brain,
Still foul the cheer kind victory brought?
In the bugle’s drown the choral song,
What strange, deep notes ’twould auguring breathe?
Deck fresh the brow of fated Strong
With teemy bud of baser wreath?
What strange, deep notes ’twould auguring breathe?
Deck fresh the brow of fated Strong
With teemy bud of baser wreath?
For, lo, it was a gallant fight!
And, tho’ ravening Nature still stood up,
Pledged fierce, in her own drops, the bleeding Right,
Nay, bade her drain the chaliced Cup.
And, tho’ ravening Nature still stood up,
Pledged fierce, in her own drops, the bleeding Right,
Nay, bade her drain the chaliced Cup.
Tho’ unlineal stripped the lineal True,
Set low the faith, acclaimed the doubt,
What witness here but purging threw
Its passioned gage, to bear it out,
Set low the faith, acclaimed the doubt,
What witness here but purging threw
Its passioned gage, to bear it out,
That worse than steel or murd’rous flare
Of gaping mouth, whose sudden gust
Flicks out the flame of little life, it were to bear
The yoke that galls with rude Unjust;
Of gaping mouth, whose sudden gust
Flicks out the flame of little life, it were to bear
The yoke that galls with rude Unjust;
That they slay not half, who merely kill,
Nor holds within the execution of the sword
Yon cunning stab which numbs the will,
In its drowse lays on the bondsman’s cord;
Nor holds within the execution of the sword
Yon cunning stab which numbs the will,
In its drowse lays on the bondsman’s cord;
That sweet blood spilt in noble cause,
Somehow, sustaining blends with Heaven’s dew,
So partner’d, for fresh come-up grows,
Past choke of False, the larger True;
Somehow, sustaining blends with Heaven’s dew,
So partner’d, for fresh come-up grows,
Past choke of False, the larger True;
No harvest else come worth its seed,
Which holds not fast, gives o’er to taunt
This word—not what is bred, but what we breed
Foregathered hoard, but what we plant,
Alone shall lift mid prides that sink,
To foison come, ’mid thorny steeps of mazy ways,
Where ruthless heats far-fated drink,
Make nought the sap of lustful days;
Which holds not fast, gives o’er to taunt
This word—not what is bred, but what we breed
Foregathered hoard, but what we plant,
Alone shall lift mid prides that sink,
To foison come, ’mid thorny steeps of mazy ways,
Where ruthless heats far-fated drink,
Make nought the sap of lustful days;
So pledged alone endure, enlarge,
Make good, withal, some vicared trust,
Undue to hope yon scruteless charge
Whose brief is Time and riddling Dust;
Make good, withal, some vicared trust,
Undue to hope yon scruteless charge
Whose brief is Time and riddling Dust;
So nurtured, rear, while Right unfolds,
Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan’s,
Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds,
Sets God twice forth, thro’ will of Man’s.
Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan’s,
Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds,
Sets God twice forth, thro’ will of Man’s.
Oh, yes, it was a gallant fight,
In free men’s gashes writ on Story’s page,
Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night,
And Destiny muse Time’s vanished stage.
In free men’s gashes writ on Story’s page,
Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night,
And Destiny muse Time’s vanished stage.
Shall hours blank its annaled score,
But bear it down t’ward yet to-comes,
At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore,
Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums—
But bear it down t’ward yet to-comes,
At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore,
Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums—
Yon love of Free, whose far-off fount,
Which, say it flow through beast and slave,
Withal, bids man stand up, assert, account
Exalt the gift—some Self, some Soul it gracious gave;
Which, say it flow through beast and slave,
Withal, bids man stand up, assert, account
Exalt the gift—some Self, some Soul it gracious gave;
Yon voice of Just, whose auguring sooth
Wide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars,
While infinite Patience, she, the Truth,
Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars.
Wide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars,
While infinite Patience, she, the Truth,
Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars.
PEACE.
The gentle word has gone abroad, and on mens’ lips
A tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound,
As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slips
On swelling heart-heaves ’bout the world’s round,
A tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound,
As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slips
On swelling heart-heaves ’bout the world’s round,
Charms to its strain the aliens ’t tongue,
In yon same music which the high Hopes know,
Since, true to wisdom, their brave cheer was sung,
Confounding Darkness where the dim Doubts go.
In yon same music which the high Hopes know,
Since, true to wisdom, their brave cheer was sung,
Confounding Darkness where the dim Doubts go.
And shall heart not heed it, nor its welcome plight;
This cup, not feast it, match its deep propose?
Unpledging riot, shall the brutal Might
Not own the Fountain whence all fathom draws?
This cup, not feast it, match its deep propose?
Unpledging riot, shall the brutal Might
Not own the Fountain whence all fathom draws?
Bathe sweet those gashes and the bitter bruise,
Shall Strength, not holding of her heavyhand,
Unleague all compact, which, to spite the Truce,
Made Hell confederate with her blind command;
Shall Strength, not holding of her heavyhand,
Unleague all compact, which, to spite the Truce,
Made Hell confederate with her blind command;
Let new days deck her in a nobler wreath,
A serener vision lift that groveling brow,
Duress and rancor, while they bated breathe,
Against some Presence where the deep Fates bow,
A serener vision lift that groveling brow,
Duress and rancor, while they bated breathe,
Against some Presence where the deep Fates bow,
And, veiled speakers, with mute lay-on hands
Ordain, atoning, while the sky-paths chime,
In anthems swelling past their starren strands,
That ever postulant, sore-vicared Time.
Ordain, atoning, while the sky-paths chime,
In anthems swelling past their starren strands,
That ever postulant, sore-vicared Time.
Why then—shall Hope not speak it, find no moan was lost,
She, whose heave of sorrow bade the Destinies shrive,
Say why her ventures came so sorely tossed,
So hard at sea, till Faith did question their at-all arrive?
She, whose heave of sorrow bade the Destinies shrive,
Say why her ventures came so sorely tossed,
So hard at sea, till Faith did question their at-all arrive?
Shall Hope not find it—how Mistrust was out,
Yon fierce old reckoner, whose too absolute course
And wary checkings by his peer, the Doubt,
Still foul the bearings of the archer Source?
Yon fierce old reckoner, whose too absolute course
And wary checkings by his peer, the Doubt,
Still foul the bearings of the archer Source?
For, has Peace not spoken? on men’s lips
Hangs not a quaver, like some Gladness there,
Some soothing spirit, from whose balm-wing slips,
Fanned wide, this message, it would brothering bear?
Hangs not a quaver, like some Gladness there,
Some soothing spirit, from whose balm-wing slips,
Fanned wide, this message, it would brothering bear?
Has Peace not spoken, has the gentle word,
Invoking, blessed not the ear again?
Has Earth not witnessed, not the Heavens heard,
Its joy fall healing on the hearts of men?
Invoking, blessed not the ear again?
Has Earth not witnessed, not the Heavens heard,
Its joy fall healing on the hearts of men?
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!
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.
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?
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?
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.
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.
And, World-heart, O, what hast thou won?
And, is the sad act past and done?
Or, does its score, sunk wide and deep,
In some blind hell fierce-copied keep,
For Days, which, tho’ their loath pace creep,
Oft span with strides each reckoned Far;
For such—for Broil’s rude, loud, and noted star
To trace once more upon the Light
Yon awful cypher of the Night?
And, is the sad act past and done?
Or, does its score, sunk wide and deep,
In some blind hell fierce-copied keep,
For Days, which, tho’ their loath pace creep,
Oft span with strides each reckoned Far;
For such—for Broil’s rude, loud, and noted star
To trace once more upon the Light
Yon awful cypher of the Night?
A CONCORDANCE.
The Dawn that ’woke this train of songs—each simple lay—
The lowering, then, and stirring hours,
Have ’cross those dim fields passed away,
Where History, gathering ghostly flowers,
Erst flush with life, now chill and gray,
Would bind them fair, their story tell,
The silent bloom Death loves so well;
Nay, haply show, how from their seed,
What large effects may leveling breed.
The lowering, then, and stirring hours,
Have ’cross those dim fields passed away,
Where History, gathering ghostly flowers,
Erst flush with life, now chill and gray,
Would bind them fair, their story tell,
The silent bloom Death loves so well;
Nay, haply show, how from their seed,
What large effects may leveling breed.
That Dawn has sped—trite Day knows all;
The roistering winds that ravening blew
Have ceased their brawl,
Mad sport that drew
War’s winged hounds, and harpies flew,
Fanned foul the airs and thicked their breath,
Each heave at bouts with throttling Death.
While from the din there rose, I thought,
Brave strains of man no fear might toss:
If, echoing these, a few I wrought
Into rude posies, strove to cross
Their wildness with the rose of art,—
Ah! they were such slips as throws the heart,
The roistering winds that ravening blew
Have ceased their brawl,
Mad sport that drew
War’s winged hounds, and harpies flew,
Fanned foul the airs and thicked their breath,
Each heave at bouts with throttling Death.
While from the din there rose, I thought,
Brave strains of man no fear might toss:
If, echoing these, a few I wrought
Into rude posies, strove to cross
Their wildness with the rose of art,—
Ah! they were such slips as throws the heart,
Grafts tongue on thought; here grew to breathe
Those clear-felt notes not theirs to choose.
Which, humbly, while their love did wreathe
A passioned chaplet for the Muse;
Did they, to match her large faith there,
To vie the crown she auguring bear,
Not weave as well, to extol her sooth,
A sister garland for the Truth?
Those clear-felt notes not theirs to choose.
Which, humbly, while their love did wreathe
A passioned chaplet for the Muse;
Did they, to match her large faith there,
To vie the crown she auguring bear,
Not weave as well, to extol her sooth,
A sister garland for the Truth?