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!
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?
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.
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?