Call fondly, wildly, tho' how vainly, down, The long remitted, yet etern withheld, While boundless Loving by great Patience sits-- Twin-seed and concept of the boweled Ruth, That, sainting, quickens to immaculate God-- Would yet call down, call monstrous down, The infinite respited, his aye unushered And unthundered Doom? PETER CRONJE. Paardeberg, Feb., 1900. Unto the templed haunts of her that sits, And to acclaim of echoes writes the stirring deeds of men-- Each noisy plaudit that reverberate flits Across the tablet's white, to never lift its breath again. Each solemn impress, too, the burin graves, And clear and fast, to living strokes, the stone-page holds 'Gainst his rude blot whose gulf enwaves With sweeping crest all flash and strain of baser moulds. To her who wreathes the Days, their laurel twines, Or, decks no brow Fame's love to tell, Came wisest Clio, Story's far-recording Muse, A page in hand, whose bitter brief but glowing lines Each trophied shaft, that rose, made prouder swell, Blaze fresh its graphic lore with nobler hues. To her,--this word on lip: "Build Sister now past shock of Days my latest shrine; Based build it past their dim beseech, Who up thro' Time wan ghost-hands reach, To slur with doubt his fair'st design: Be yare! The Heavens lo, for tribute pine!" And mark, they pact! 'Fore Chancel-bar the high vows plight: Ordained the Altar, while uprose through flame, Clear-set 'gainst unspent yet and brooding night The sweet, wild star--the beacon flash of Cronje's name. CHRISTIAN DE WET.[2] Fame long took wary note of him, So did proud England, too, who, from his hand, In the blood-red, flowery vintage of her land, Has drained his pledges to their bitter brim, Till, within the fiery cups, well-nigh an Empire swim, Staggers for sure foot, wonders at that dizzy head, What craze infatuate demons in yon soft spot bred, Whence this vile feeling in each once firm limb? What worked such odious rouse in one so free? Made this man loathe her, so defy all fate, That in his eye the price has fallen of all things but Hate, Wide Earth, unregioned, where her realms not be? Cries here not, summoning, out, like from some Fury's song, For 'ts dreadful due, some fierce, intolerable Wrong? [2] For a final estimate of De Wet see pages 101-102. OOM PAUL.