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? 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? 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? 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? 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.