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?