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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-03 18:54:48 -0800 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-03 18:54:48 -0800 |
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diff --git a/44641-0.txt b/44641-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..72a1762 --- /dev/null +++ b/44641-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2221 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44641 *** + + BOER WAR LYRICS + + BY + LOUIS SELMER + + THE + Abbey Press + + PUBLISHERS + + 114 + FIFTH AVENUE + London NEW YORK Montreal + + Copyright, 1903, + by + THE + Abbey Press + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + PAGE + + Prelude vii + On the Trail of the Lion 3 + The Gibbet-Song 28 + The Scar 48 + To England: A Forecast 56 + War 60 + Clio 66 + Ave Pax 68 + Alpha 70 + Omega 71 + Greatness 72 + Peter Cronje 82 + Christian De Wet 84 + Oom Paul 85 + Cecil Rhodes 87 + Chamberlain 89 + Salisbury 90 + Peace Pending 92 + Peace 96 + After 99 + Christian De Wet 101 + Sine Die 103 + A Concordance 104 + + + + + PREFACE. + + +Most of the verses in this little volume were conceived and written, if +not quite finished, at the time of Cronje's surrender at Paardeberg. + +A certain doubt, however, as to any message of theirs, though modestly +set off by a belief in their polemic and literary value, has, I think +now, unduly delayed their advent into the crowded world of print; and, +though the present juncture of a heralded, but, by no means, perfected +peace, be perhaps not a very opportune moment for their publication, I +have yet thought well to give them forth; the more, since what so be the +outcome of the negotiations pending, and whichsoever be the motive of +the stronger party thereto--whether a bitter, though slowly realized +necessity, or, a trick of pure heart, or, say, tardy insight and +charity, both--be this as it may--the long, though fruitless attempt on +England's part to compel a surrender by the South African republics of +their political existence, illustrating and upholding, as no modern +exhibition of this kind has done, how rampant is still in Man, and +collective Man especially, a tacit faith in the bigger fist, or, +euphemistically speaking, the predatory law of nature--this, I repeat +it, can never, it seems to me, be sufficiently reprehended; and a hearty +condemnation of it may, therefore, fitly form the theme of +conscientious, if necessarily, censorious verse: with which contention +the following pieces are frankly submitted, even at this late day of a +stupendous struggle of moral Right--whatsoever its intellectual grounds +and equipment--against an aggressive and overweening Might, whose +partial defence allowed, rests, after all, and as already maintained, +its wider base on purely material force, on that callous and objective +expediency, which History, in her account of human odds, evermore +reveals, and, far too often, glaringly condones. + +NEW YORK, May, 1902. + + * * * * * + +Since the above was set down, Peace has at last gone forth, and of a +pace with the better drift and traditions of England; but even so, +there seems no valid ground why these Lyrics should not be heard, as an +exponent in brief--inadequate, if you like, yet human no less--of a, for +a long time, not to be forgotten broil, if, indeed, the sad imp of +Contention has had his last say about it. + +November, 1902. + + + + + PRELUDE. + + + Out of rare heart-deeps flowing, + Primer than thought-spring founts, + Upward, 'gainst vaster knowing, + Lightsome the Song-word mounts. + + And athrob with some faith etern, + From Being's deep-violed strings, + Draweth, to heaves that burn, + The advent and sooth of things. + + Invokes unto Song, where the still Hopes go, + The Spirit's immutable law. + + + + + BOER WAR LYRICS. + + + + + ON THE TRAIL OF THE LION. + + (History in Verse.) + + + INTRODUCTION. + + Somewhere to the Moonward, or Sunward, so to speak; + A span or two to Eastward, then Southward by a streak, + Was heard to blare of tomtom a shameless epic wail, + At fancy of some Lion who had whisked his blooming tail + Plumb thro' a nest of hornets, nor never dreamt the hive + Had such a trick to mind him how were that tail alive. + And it seems the skies were blathering while every wind-god swore + The Pities would have curdled to hear the Beastie roar. + All offered salve and comfort, said never done was Wrong, + But some requiting Themis should venge it to her song; + Should smite the pesting dwarfies and heal the giant's bruise, + See paw and toothie peak not for lack of worthy use. + And, O, the strain fell whopping to thunder--drip of sooth, + A lamb-like lyric slopping its pace with bleary ruth; + Nay, in sober last, an epic, outworking thro' the fact, + Through blaze of hostile numbers, its own and bitter act. + And it shook us to the Westward--a touch of kin and near-- + We banged our shoppy hatches: we had a right to hear. + + ARGUMENT. + + And this--yes, this, was the song of the Sorrowful True, + Which Father Wicked, the Old, for his child, the New, + He, and that cherub of rowdy fist, + Who'll blithely shake it where erst he kissed-- + That covered Holy, the unctuous Wrong-- + With his blushing bouncer, St. Meek, the Strong; + Set jointly down (while in crafty doubt + A wilful Muse turned it inside out, + Bared hide and heart of the stalking lore, + Its bluff and cant to their dismal core--) + Set down, I say, to mock-halcyon cheers, + As, with knife at throat of the suckling years, + They bled the weans, lest with peaceful bear, + Or, for other virtues in hiding there, + The gods, who winnow all mortal stock, + Should nurse the goats while they weed the flock-- + Let for lack of pasture the true herd pine: + And all for what? For a humping quibble on Mine and Thine! + Nay, lest Rue, the babbler, with saucy dare, + Should sit in judgment twixt Foul and Fair; + Should slaver worse, if she came of age, + With inglorious snivel wise Clio's page: + Lest all of this, with what sousing tact + They niced her the diverse of whim and fact; + How glowed their zeal as they raked the Rue, + Broke font and tablet and put her through + Such drench of penance and convert-course, + Such Christian baptism from Truth, the Source: + Sure text nor ritual made never doubt, + Nor seasoned clerks, as with wary snout, + Each subtle wealsman stood sly at bay: + For leet or laurel--let wise Time say. + + * * * * * + + Well--this was the Song of the Sorrowful True: + A rip of a Muse--but it gives her view. + Curt and clear tho', did the touches fall, + Such pithy halves as outspeak the Whole: + Are you with me still? Can you check a flout? + Then stretch a will to hear it out? + + VIDELICET: + + (_Hour before Dawn--The Muse brooding_.) + + O, what hangs so leaden on the brow of Night, + As if grim Darkness 'pon herself had bred, + To make a second and a direr gloom? + What wrestles so the advent of the Light, + Whence from yon paths the white stars tread + Should visioned peer its orient bloom? + + What thrills, withal, do baffled heave, + Then urge anew against the serried Dark, + At such beseech, their silent suit? + What muttered rolls half-halting cleave + These omened airs that still hang stark, + As big with what they dare not bruit? + + (_Faint Dawn_.) + + But yet it lifts, thro' huddling blurs, + The eager Light. Lo, Day saddles the white Dawn, + At heel his troop, close-wheeling, spurs, + Unto his banner world-wide thrown, + Each waft, his way. Close Night unhoods; + No more beneath her grim gaze shrinks, + But featured fair, in tribute ruds + Each nether thing, and lifesome drinks. + + (_Full Dawn_.) + + But, O, scene-painting Light, what stage is yon? + Dim-figured tho', what grim play breeds? + Troy's second act? Where Hector stout, some Thetis' son, + The deadly phalanx girds and leads? + + What fatal Beauty bears in hand + With strumpet's lure this sore divide? + For lo, her brow, to venal brand, + Reads fierce with lust of worldly pride! + + Why wears true Grace so blanched a cheek? + What things o' Night do rouse for prey, + Confound with grim and loathsome reek + The balmy breath of youngling Day? + + What lists be those? What dirges wail? + Why drags white Peace yon gory pall? + I see great Mars in flame-knit mail, + I hear the fierce god's buglers call. + + And gleamy steel from scabbard flies, + War's every hound is red at mouth, + No belching throat but havoc cries, + Would drench in blood the Summer's drought. + + Out, Sense! some trick is here of phrenzied Night; + These clamors wind no human breath, + But ghostly haunt yon winsome light + The phantom shades of legioned Death. + + And yet yon orb is surely Day's: + The Land re-speaks him, and his glass, the sea; + All tongues at one, no witness stays, + But owns his line observantly. + + Nay, flung wide is now the portaled East; + Behind, before, Light's lofty welcome burns, + Whose cheer wide-spread for Most and Least, + Repledged, alone, his host-call earns. + + But O, what mates come here to feed! + They spill the sweet and lifesome wine; + They fool the sense with sightless greed, + The knife their law twixt yours and mine. + + And these, for sure, are Afric's strands, + And those have rid the hurly sea, + Whence towering fair great Albion stands, + His brow writ broad with Liberty; + + With her, whose cheer is general joy-- + The gracious board whose never mess + Lets these to pine, so those may cloy + And glut his maw, the Hog, Excess-- + + But these no more are kindred shores: + Here may her buckler rusting hang, + Where, still at beat, thro' throbbing yores, + Oppression's slave-blows dying rang. + + Here, all thro' fear and nothing love, + As if each patient light stood mute, + May ripping talons deal the Dove + This branding scan--a prostitute! + + Thy pardon, god of lofty song, + Whose fires feed the Piaerian Spring, + If Truth for right to scoff at Wrong, + In thy fair flame a gall-nut fling! + + Yes, yon, for sure, are Afric's strands, + But where is the banneret of the Free? + What fouling touch of harpy hands + Has smirched his shield and panoply? + + What spouse is this, my valiant Son? + What gross embrace for Freedom's kiss: + These are the sheets of Abbadon, + The bastard clasp high Furies hiss! + + O, John, was not thy bed as goodly broad + As Phoebus spans twixt East and West? + His, not the haunts thy fortune trode, + Right burly tho', an honored guest? + + But thou must grudge the meaner cot-- + The plainer house thy Brother built-- + This text deem, foolish, out of shot: + "That Have, for greed, shall sure be spilt?" + + Would have 'gainst Worse this wisdom bear: + "Who dons the Might, but leaves her crown, + Shall stand her dupe; nay, all his wear + Shall never hide the thievish clown." + + O, John, I knew thy stomach hale and round, + With mortal sense for needful prog; + But this?--here any scab had led the hound, + Had smelt foul fare the noseless hog! + + Oh yes; thy friends did this--those nothing-loaths: + Their bosom's rank with self-sick stuff-- + The Devil's shufflers when he goads + And packs with Nice the Ne'er Enough-- + + The Devil, Self, and all his Swill, + Who knows how deep sits sordid lust; + How near all power lies to will, + Our wills to the damned Unjust. + + Ah, yes--thy friends--each wily Dick, + Or under-helmsman to that crew + Who at no faith-breach blush to stick, + So but their grist come safely through; + + Who, with the rough youth, Glory, ape apace, + Quite out of mind his Elder's lease, + And for a brief from fame-fee'd days, + Would wash his hands in bleeding peace. + + And he--no neuter he--he whoops so hard, + The brazen, roystering, gingo-sheet, + Who serves his vomit tricked with nard, + Thro' flattering brag, the bloodfiend's heat. + + Who weeps to think the Lion dupe + To tearing wolves in shepherd's cowls, + Then to his sore heart lays this stupe-- + That there were innings to the howls-- + + And all for Empire: scape-goat-thing! + Look down, proud pile, at thine own feet! + Do not, thro' knell, the ages sing + How tainted base, the top-strong seat + + Shall, tumbling, empty all their sham, + And blaze this line on Story's page-- + That Fill thro' Foul may never dam, + Or check the course her Vengers wage. + + How Rule unbuilt each day anew, + With tempered glow each brutish fire, + Shall lack of pith to fame the True, + Unlaureled stand before the Sire. + + Nay, to unbred ages hand the bill + For bounden due and bitter scan; + The compt and trust he shrank to fill, + To bate the sum of answering Man. + + O, John, thy file of friends runs fast and queer! + Be sick awhile with honest doubt! + Best heart still doffs to wholesome Fear: + Revise thy list--leave spongers out! + + Oh yes, I know what thou would'st say: + "Thou bits't a stiff and rough-back mare, + Unblest, unbroke to right obey, + Lest as she catch the trumpet's flare." + + But there again thy false friends spoke-- + Each fisty Brave that wearies Time, + Who 'ld headlong rush the brazen yoke, + Than share a pace, so all may climb. + + More apt to speed with reckless spur + Thy nicer o'er thy nobler star + Than bring to eye what tho' it blur, + Yet, warning, sheens the misty Far. + + Oh, yes, I know, as world-walks shift, + There is sore push for forward seats: + We quake at taunts from ride-hard Thrift, + Then late her pace with churlish heats-- + + And wear this mask before our hearts, + This paltry shift of truckling breed, + That veering Trade or waning marts-- + All drift that swerves with human need-- + + May tide with looks the franker Light, + With crafty lead, its artless youth, + While Just, a bawd to brazen Right, + New bastards bear the groaning Truth. + + Suppose we take a backward look, + Past years as yet scarce out o' moulds: + You, from your near-illumined Book, + I--whence no home-trick holds. + + In damning truth, a proper pry, + Since at its head War whets his sword, + While Justice puts her ægis by, + And eats his brag and bully's word-- + + A look as far as when befell, + What glamored fierce the bridging sea, + Each flary crest at push to tell + How the white stones shone in Kimberley-- + + And dimmed your faith and glossed the pledge, + And juggled Right with wheedling Wrong; + Gave Cant new stand--this privilege: + To rest all cause on proof of Strong. + + Your pious grab, the half-heart rue, + The hush you paid to still a twinge, + All snugged within this lofty view-- + "He steers the moke who holds the cinch." + + But in your big Book that's fable now, + Might sleep, kept not this line awake-- + "That meddling pasts, ne'er done, somehow, + Assess for quits all present stake." + + Since just as deft his story wove + The yellow Devil in the Rand, + As Dame Empire, O, so high suave, + Took bleary Mammon by the hand-- + + And there was nudge and jobbing kiss, + And scan o' map and leer of eye: + "How came our wits so wide of this-- + It lay so near and tempting by?" + + While in at gate flowed pick and raff, + For catch is life to brotherhood; + Each tribesman bent, thro' clean or draff, + To swing his carp from out the mud. + + And every hoist and tackle told, + As sure it ought, where sleek and trim, + At scoop and dive for wriggling gold, + The big Mouths join and steer the Swim. + + While coy, thro' fill of common eye, + As fadged with tooth of safer breed, + Smug Power yet found crumbs to fry, + While sampling Chefs gave dainty heed. + + And snacks went 'round for taste and tout: + The Home-cook swore the stuff was fine: + "Why should such plums be ladled out + To grunting clod and boorish swine?" + + "Not swell our own and proved Menu? + This crowd at board keeps coming still: + Suppose we shift, _à son insu_, + To nab his joint, and eke the bill? + + "Or what's the same--we fix his stew, + Put such a sauce in broth and dish-- + Such plausive snap and tang o' True-- + That none shall dream we came to fish; + + "But love of man was all we meant; + Till, less in doubt each lode-star gaze, + At Heaven's clear, tho' mute intent, + By as we head, to hold her pace. + + "And this fellow, certes, has sore behoof + To take a word from wiser mouths, + Who has stretched his crib and smoky roof + Whence North-from, down, the zone-line souths; + + "Almost a split--a crying jag; + A scare at top, a threat, below; + An ugly tuck that scrimps the bag + We meant to fill as harvests grow. + + "In our big sail a plaguy reef, + Were it not that craft o' his pert make + With too much head have come to grief, + Strew bottom up our rushing wake. + + "Against the owl what counts the mouse? + But no. That strains a bit the proper zest: + He shall have due of grounds and house, + We'll dish for him as for the rest. + + "'Twill daze him, sure, our big provide, + Till, on a breath, he vent his stare: + 'Such doors as these had best be tried, + Ere back to thatch and homely fare.' + + "And say he sulks, we'll coax him in: + What does he care who carves the meat? + So fill of fodder strew the bin, + Who rules the loft, or heads the treat? + + "He will never quibble on a word, + Give simple 'rob' a double sense; + But loyal strain shall well accord + With leave of thrift and competence. + + "And 'tis trite as dirt, where'er we go, + The sleek slut, Trade, trots close at heel, + 'Gainst whose hard sense how fares the saw, + The musty fib--'Thou shalt not steal!' + + "Yes--we'll be his staff and hedge him fine, + Till lust of Have like gospel read, + And his backbone in the general spine + Does merge its hump and dogged breed. + + "The idiot pluck with which he strove + To shield his hearth with freehold fence, + And rather wear the homely wove + Than rig to suit our lofty sense. + + "His rooted stand and settled haze + The foot he plants 'gainst sudden New, + Whose golden tilth and reap of grace + Holds furrowed snug the only True. + + "His crafty shield; those mealy snares + For simple lambs. His wolfish doubt, + When, stung and wrung with sore his cares, + They flocked to help friend Hodges out-- + + "And forced from faith his better word, + And warped his truth with keen despair, + That the large rights for which he chored + Should never greet a lineal heir. + + "But all his throb and bitter sweat, + His blood paid down for desert lands, + Should snap its lease, be lightly set + A hawker's trust in stranger hands-- + + "And how for this he bled and drove, + Cribbed-in this band of saintly Peace; + Played wary host to all their trove, + Made yare go 'round the golden fleece-- + + "And worst--those sons of loot, his bossy crew! + Who, fearing thieves, would chance no charm, + But gag the spoiler 'fore he grew + To oust their rights with legal arm. + + "All this: shocks! 'Twere worth a bloody nose: + To size him up, then pare him down, + Till, as to cure the treatment grows, + We snug him hale within the Crown. + + "A gem whose shine and proper place + And dapper fit to lofty plan + He'll soon see clear thro' his amaze, + With contrite heart--the leal man. + + "And Square-toes' gait at last be set; + With social wash to status brought + His lowly breed and rustic sweat: + O, God of Thrift! What happy thought!" + + * * * * * + + When hard upon this longish muse, + Which, if it fail of absolute mold, + Is yet what, at a close peruse, + A muddled act does broadly hold-- + + When pat, to suit Godfather's cue, + That pious child, the hungry League + Was christened snug and gospeled through, + Anoint with salve of high intrigue; + + Nay, preached and bore the brainless gang, + Who gripped at throat the better hope + While Right, with due, past caution rang + How every neck was worth a rope. + + And 'woke this cry with warning rouse-- + "Since Neighbor Near seem Neighbor Pike, + 'Twere time small fry made fast the house, + Girt fence and gate with double spike." + + * * * * * + + Since when, what other brood of kindred grace, + Which, true to stock, the devil yeans, + Joined trick and tooth and darksome ways + To work the bolts by subtler means! + + While last--O, John, will ne'er thy friends be wise? + What balm, tho' gross with clumsy tape, + What quacks' set-up in surgeon's guise + Came foisting, fuddling from the Cape! + + What hangman's cure and mad appeal, + What blind invoke past doubt of suit, + What sowings thrust with iron heel, + Whose yet no half has bore its fruit! + + Oh, yes, thro' stress and truce, and right along, + It still repeats the old-time game, + How brother Weak met brother Strong, + Who saw, and took, and felt no shame. + + Whom so self-dread, that final awe, + Could graft on soul this chastening sense-- + That endless widening circles Law, + Rules nations' hopes as single mens'. + + But strangled fierce his safer light, + Let smiling Nears hide frowning Fars, + Whose then approach twice ruthless write, + To hastening pace, fulfilling Stars. + + Who pinned on back of brazen years + This shrift o' theirs to coming times: + "He minded not the silent leers, + The steady sooth the Sybil rhymes." + + Whose burdened wreath may never bear + 'Mong graven gems this baser stone, + Which, from low seat tho' crude it flare, + Twice sorry dims the blazoned throne-- + + While doubly thence its legend reads: + "I tithe no blench to higher Wills, + But hold it cardinal 'mong creeds + 'Tis love of self that all fulfills." + + Since, certes, good John, the wide Fates kiss: + Their sum-up Clerks need not be told + By one grim page to set this quizz-- + "So little wise and yet so old." + + So heady still, spite curb of years, + Such toper there where hard heads brew + Against some Guest that sobering nears, + From draff o' old the cleaner New. + + From cross of Days some bear-up Creed-- + To sum of Why the sweet Reply, + Than cyphered Fate of clearer breed, + And purge to text she teacheth by-- + + The "yea" to "nay" of self-sick man, + What crowns his raw and groan-fed Stars; + With olived light the vulture's span + That gores as yet all warding bars; + + Who, tho' still she strew her trophied trail + O'er sanguine sore, but fading seas, + Marks lift, and girt with nobler mail, + As sturdy rise, white-bucklered Peace. + + * * * * * + + But I have had my little say:-- + The Muse is such a taunting lass; + She grips your hand, and will or nay, + 'Tis bear her tongue ere brooked to pass-- + + In sooth, she says she's really done: + O'erhead a prim and foolish Moon, + In trappings borrowed from the Sun, + Flaunts gay her frock and silver shoon. + + E'en so will human Wit fling wide + Its took-on crest and glittering gear, + What are but glancings as they glide + From off the Truth's all-spanning sphere. + + So will the Muse stand hard at gaze + Beneath this mystic, myriad Arch, + Hear faint thro' rush of whirling days + Time's silent roundsmen file and march-- + + Their never ending, ordered beat, + Those footsteps yare that warning fall + And charge each hand to bide the meet, + Account his watch, or void the Roll. + + Nay, nothing daunted, pause to catch + Perhaps their song, perhaps the jars; + Through sting and throb, at strain to match + Their measures to some boundless Star's. + + But yet at Wrong she cannot bide + Must have her jog at slug-slow Time: + How far it rouse his hard-bound hide-- + Ah! there's the test of quickening rhyme! + + + + + THE GIBBET-SONG.[1] + + [1] The onus of the South African War seems, in the main, to have + rested on three pairs of shoulders--those of Rhodes (who has now + excused himself), Chamberlain and Milner. + + The Gallows is a composite something--a sort of trio-also--known to + assume burdens, likewise, to-wit: the Beam, the Trap, and the Rope. + + + I dozed--had dipped in gray of dreams-- + While at gate of mind no sentry sat, + But such blithe watch and ward whereat + The Fancy laughs, more tricksy sports her airy gleams-- + Had dipped--unrobed, immersed, for all she fought, + In the bath, each leaden limb of weary Thought. + + Such truce!--while shoal of dreams slid restful by; + When, hark! Came phantomed not upon the misty air, + At hum and buzz, some quaint palavering there-- + Some spell--which, ere the tranced ear could sort and try, + Took vision, too, put up, made free, + Where Reverie's haunts and workings be. + + The eeriest shapes--tho' of yon fierce breed + That cows sweet Song, harsh-tunes her chime, + Thick-mists the heights she fain would climb, + Yet, e'en so, their sad defence and privilege plead: + Rude differences, of mark and poise, + That, 'gainst all manners, prompt her voice: + + The weirdest set,--tho' jovial, too, if looks describe, + And hardy Mirth--yon gamy stuff that seeks no bush, + Which Muse will start when, at a push, + She sports the string of hoot and jibe; + Tho' God help! as many a licensed rascal knows, + A proper chord, for all its ring of lashing prose. + + But who were they? By way of count, the eye + Had made them three--some treble pink, or clover there-- + Tho', sooth to say, I never saw the threefoil wear + The weird wild grace they conjured by. + But then, what can't Illusion shadow forth, + That shames the needle, souths the north? + + The First--in faith, all had a cunning trick + Of linking arms, a hang-together sort of look, + Which how to severalize and separate book + Comes hard, save unto whom, among Life's pick + Of strange acquaintance, she makes free + Shall have close dealings with these Corporate Three. + + This First--a lanky chap he was, of way-up size, + Clean-timbered, straight as pine-grain flows, + Or frank heart feels, yet now, for, certes, some heinous cause, + His way was curt, his speech came grim--some hanged surmise + His gaunt frame feels, which, as it shouldering brings + To view his level top, spoke curious things + + While the Second, tho' less staunch of thew, + Say, to the others beam as boards of clap, + Showed yet his ilk--a jaw alive as any trap; + Tho' one, who backed his sense with feeling, too; + For the way he would warm up, take on, and lead, + When as some new light broke, was sight indeed. + + And last, that sprawling Third--so meek, so mincing slim, + You'ld never ha' dreamt how's his gag was bound, + In the end, to clinch a subject, coil it round, + As he let out that twisting trick of him; + Which, till erring Man and Time debate no more, + Shall still leave points for Master Rope to score. + + Well--here was Company, if all was square? + A doubt stood out, heard Heart say, "Brother Brain, + Good Sir, have you been chumming with the Wine again?" + When, "No," flung back the Head, "I wasn't there + This many a day; since when my kindling deities are + But a cup of Oolong and a mild cigar." + + Yet, drat the thing! 'Twould take no nay; + The stuff came fierce. Some blaze seemed on, + And, tho' with no clear ground to go upon, + I thought I said, "Let come what may, + I'll hear it out," tho' 'ts trick for strange now topped the score, + For by Grab and Stab! they spoke of War. + + Yon feud that stains South Afric's land, + The foul use to which a giant's sword + Had long been put, 'gainst some young ward + Of freedom's there. How the gallant tho' forlorn band, + Compeers of Fame, made ring her page + With wonder of the strife they singly wage. + + Nay, what took me most,--but then, + What good to ponder how these Councillors three + Came to speak so tactic-deep, so judgingly + 'Bout how that bully's brawl might not have been, + Had they, on strength of prospect, in their wholesome way, + From forth the tingling cheek of modern Day, + + With timely hand, rebuking, wiped this burning shame, + Made knavery uncloak, ere treason flew + Her couriers flaunting of their liveried True, + And with craft of covert mired a goodly name; + No good to ponder this, now the vile flood has broke, + Yet fact, or no--it was the way these worthies spoke. + + And queer'st of all,--by some strange spell + They becked me on, and, edging 'round, + As in some magic circle held me bound, + When, "now," cried they, "it fits us tell, + 'Less thou be one of those, too apt by far, + Who, shuffling, try to shape their star, + By tale, lined smug with pleasing sooth, + And, like world-wise husbands, till and farm + No lease that tinge with thought of harm-- + We doubt you sore--than sweat at back of rugged Truth; + Who expound all fact by textman Strong, + Glibbed ne'er so smooth with fine-spun Wrong." + + "Yes, 'swounds! said they, it fits us tell,'-- + When, as with sense of proper cue, + The Beam--the fellow of the sturdy thew-- + Spoke singly out: like tongue of rousing bell + That on still deeps of vasty midnight falls, + To doom of raging flood, or fire calls, + + Reverberate rang his ghostly strain: + "Had I been there, on Afric's shore, + Where homes mid toil the hardy Boer; + Or, there where erst was laid the train + And cunning fuse, whose rowdy charge + Set War's deep-mouthed hounds at large-- + + Been there--good now and well-a-day! + Proud Cecil's hunger for more Earth, + To swell a tottering empire in the girth, + No thought for 'ts feet, those props of clay, + Should for its fill, or nearways bound, + Have had a six foot some of Christian ground. + + Or, grant, this stories not, by far, + Quite twists, the way his craving came; + That a wider mark went roves with Fame: + E'en so--the fatuous head he gave his star + Balked still true rise, yon warier climb, + Which must match foot with patient Time. + + But, take in both; let honor owe + Some voice to each; yet some base touch no merit downs, + Sinks born kings to range with clowns, + Wreaked here its curse thro' human law, + And, deriving whence no issue sleep, + Would have had yon stern verdict keep. + + Since, so had no lure that Mammon piles + Blazed wide to men, "I know ye all; + Lo, here my truck, lo, there your soul! + And, what devil doubts, but damned files + For lasting count, scores twice this creed: + "Fair ends must bear what foul means breed." + + So had ne'er cried out 'gainst fearsome spilth + No brave mens' blood, no blasted home + Made sick the times, sensed fierce the stars, past where they dome + Shrilled wildly forth "this is the husbandry whose tilth, + When gathered full its ghastly sheaf, + Shall blight with shame each laureled leaf, + + "That England wears, where ranker grow,"-- + Well--this topped, I thought, all patient sense, + And it seemed I said "Now pray you whence + This dire bode? What glass be yours that it should show + What veils all view,"--here, while my lip still quivering hung, + Their wizard spell had tied my tongue; + + As from out my Dream there rose once more, + This time that other's grim, now boding voice + I thought so sleek, yet full of poise, + And, tho' still you traced the snap it bore, + 'T had now an eager, vast, nay, solemn sound, + As if chiming with the sky-paths 'round. + + Withal, it was mine ancient friend's, the Trap, + As lo, he dire spoke, "and had I been there, + Where southward down the Capelands bear, + Had I not quenched with my good cap, + O'er-topped his crest, that Milner man, + Whose swell of head to the Imperial plan + + "Such havoc worked, that toiling Day + Nor patient Night, tho' joining chore, + Retrieves the base that rose before; + But as sad Fates their grim plots lay, + Nor scorn no aid from scheming Breath, + Shall, waning, sink t'ward leveling Death." + + At this--as from its curb had once more broke + The Will--my safer self--tho' cowed and pent + Within their witching grip, I roused and bent + The tongue to hot retort, and spoke: + "Who're you, that spurs so fierce the instant Right, + Who'ld wage conclusions with the patient Light?" + + Then more calm--for within his look + There sate a gleam, that still, clear gaze, + By which dim Destiny all opposite weighs, + Nay, her least owing brings to book-- + I faltered forth: "What? him they've frilled a lord? + You'ld from your great good heart have spared a cord?" + + "Knit closer up this raveled night? + Or bee'st thou then?"--Here fell again, past pen to tell, + On tongue and will that gruesome spell, + Tho' heart and brain seemed steeped in light; + As in voice, whose vast no star-deep girds, + 'Rose grim, I thought, that eerie Thirds;' + + Now halting, meek, no more. O, futile trope! + To suit to trick of verbal range + What boundless garbs past millioned change, + Yet here, in humble guise of him, the Rope, + Spoke valiant out, tho' slept each sense-watch there, + Unvoicing very thunder by compare: + + "And had I been where across the sea, + Confederate, girt, with bulwark tides, + Fair Albion, on proud leave, divides, + With Ocean's state, his empery; + On his white bastion fearless stands, + While lift with light the beaconed hands; + + But out of mark, unstatured, sinks, + All tribute once, now scarce a heed, + Some trick, at best, sad memories breed, + When the large well, whence Honor drinks, + He fierce pollutes, the loath cup drains, + Inglorious pledged to siren gains; + + When the large glow, which constant shone, + Now winnows Night no never more, + Blasphemes its trust, the spacious charge it missioned bore, + And all his anchored pride be overthrown, + While up from heaving seas comes brooding cast, + To moan of threnody, his vanished past. + + Ah! had I been there, ere hawks could trail, + Could, hounding, snatch at brooding Peace; + Ere her wild brother's bugle shook the seas: + Had I not ta'en a reef in Joseph's sail-- + The Crest and Swell, which false at source, + Pluck whelm and blast to path their course; + + Ere broke the storm, yon blood-red tide, + Man's will, 'gainst very Fate is bound + To probe and check, but which he, callous, failed to sound: + Had I not made his tacks go wide, + Charmed lasting 'round with my good noose + The brazen throat that poohed the truce, + + Yet from her deep lip that answereth not, + Save where with pupil's grace you tend her school, + Sought shuffling plea, acclaimed for Rule, + Yon vaunted policy, whose flattering rot + Outwits itself, aborts all plan + Thro' fierce array of brawling man; + + Whose passing equity, the worldly Sure, + Might never yet a neutral stand, did witness bear-- + Yon hosting skies no plainer there-- + Than that Nations' lives may not endure, + But shall buoy up dark things of Night, + That, at issue, watch the orient Light; + Be as brief posts twixt here and hence, + Time, the user-of-them-for his haste, + Their barred entail what feeds his waste, + Slaves his command, confounds all whence; + When Aggression evermore fierce yokeman go,-- + Cries 's rage no halt,--with Nature's grim and blood-red law. + + A-well,--so set, to some such words, + So substanced to their dour pith, + Tho' the pen, at push for its wherewith, + May, chance, interpreting the rousing chords, + And, as becomes an instrument of Breath, + Be scanting what their phrenzy saith,-- + + Yet thus, from past all conscious source, + Mark, manner, privilege of Thought, + Trite limit of the time-bound brought, + Rang his appeal, whose fierce discourse, + Lest Truth, sore tossed, succumb despair, + Exhort no more, inspiring tongued the womby air. + + Whereon, as if to merge each single act, + Fuse straying motive, pledge them one, + Have, whence 'mid blaze of myriad sun, + The Theme enacts, or, where trite performs the meanest fact, + Some prompting Light declare, "this scene spake true, + Broad-based on Just to climax grew." + + Nay, as to have once more this Sponsor say: + "Tho' wrath with ruth perplex my theme, + And thro' pall of cloud my pathways gleam, + And truckling augurs bode them nay; + Yet came ne'er so lost my omened sooth, + But some light broke dim with warning truth." + + Even so, as some such charge they bore, + Now blent, as they were one, those Voices three: + Their mingled strains, consonantly, + Took jointly up this general score, + Whose burden--scale and pace to utmost star-- + Did, rounding, swell their awful bar: + + "Had we had leave, as we have will, + Laid on the rod, nor spared the hand, + But that dim Fates did baffling stand, + Called out: "Leave off, forbear, till we fulfill, + While etern Purpose, evermore at large, + Abeyant files your bitter charge!" + + "Might we have shook us in our strength, + Hadn't we laid low, by his ruffian heel, + This ogred Wrong--his mealy trick his bloat appeal-- + Cramped hell to hold his felon's length? + Her warders been, saved England's shame, + Ere Execration he her other name? + + "Ere as fiends, below, join in the flout, + Match their sad spirits, hopelessly compare + Who takes the crown for vileness there, + Hang shameful heads, as Infamy points out, + This imp, cross of Greed and lewd Complot, + His human sires monstrously begot, + + Whose unclean hand foul-featured Fame, + Young, timid traits of Peace that grew, + And as from some struggling dawn, glad-messaged, flew + With this--that God to man, howso He came, + Mote ne'er fulfill His sacred call, + Ere wisdomed lift, while sink each thrall, + + That passioned slaves, lets taskman Time + Exact to a jot what brags his lease, + And Breath blind-pays for his appease:-- + Ere lift, willed forth this dauntless rhyme-- + "Spite bonds that cling, nor seem to bate, + Some Free may war gainst him and Fate." + + Wage hard from lips of thirsting Truth + To dash this rank-envenomed Cup, + Adulterous Policy holdeth up, + Pledged cunning deep with serpent sooth-- + "That the lie which in the Weak be breach of trust, + In the Strong, may hollow drape and play the Just." + + Usurp and steal in that fair shape, + For fellowship with him the roysterer, Sword, + Shut out her cheer, the gentle Word, + Profane her wreath, its laurel ape; + Steel twice the heart, glass dark this law: + "There be no Truth: one bitter blank the Heavens go." + + At this--much like some sudden storm, that for 's ease, + At his mad pleasure, whelmed the skies, + Whose purpose carried, all his wild mood dies, + His course accounted, and his wake the peace: + So happy sank--fast curtained now, each ghost-film laid-- + From sight and sound, that threefold Shade. + + And thus my Dream, past link or bound + Of yon close web which nets all Thought, + To final plat its loomwork wrought; + Its crowning braid--the instant tint, the fervent ground-- + What deep worked in some veiled hand, + And bade both woof and pattern stand. + + And, safe-keep it so, thou justest God! + Deny it not its lease of wear, + Spite what coarse thread of Earth it bear, + All warp that fames the needy sod! + But, suffered, let its touch unfold + Some seed of Truth's anumb with cold. + + Th' impeach, the taunt--account them not, + But as they still prevail with tardy man, + And, differing, derogate Thy vast of plan, + Would bettering eke its bountied. What-- + All strange which holds, past Thought, that waits, + The shrouded edicts of unmeasured Fates! + + Profess it Thine its core o' grace-- + What strove to bare the covered fault, + The tort, whose gross, to top assault, + Would brazen mask its borrowed face, + Derive intent, refer its course + To Thine clear will and prompting source. + + At which thought, again, alas, will fall + That bitter cry; at rude division pierce the ear, + As Sight thickens, to eclipse of Fear, + My ghostly Speakers cast their pall, + Break bounds twixt this and some yet Hence, + Perturb, once more, the sequences of Sense; + While eerie lifts, at fresh loom there-- + When unnatural trespass stalks the mind, + Invokes the equity it fails to find-- + Those juried Three; as the empaneled air + Repeats, that wanton power hallows Wrong, + Those aweful measures of the Gallows' Song. + + + + + THE SCAR. + + + Heart heavy, her mantle torn, and with bleeding feet; + As from out some Dream b'yond wide-visioned Night, + Unverged, unfollowed where her infinites meet, + On brow, withal, an unextinguishable Light, + + Came crownless Glory, seeking of the haunts of man, + To find him from her faith same swerver still, + Who, tho' suffered factor in this fabled Plan, + Its wonder jars with shock of passion and the worldly will. + + From out those self-same Deeps, against whose Sight + Yon white suns veil them, that o' Times they are, + Came also he, the Greed--his lust of Have and love of Might, + To fame his flush, tho' shrouded, nay, how brazen, Star. + + Full-orbed, if ever, thro' yet feud of Days, + Whose strides would bridge it, but contrive no span, + Where, beneath, tides on forever, yea, in shrewder maze + Time's scruteless burden, since his own began; + + Whose Strange withal to lighten, 'less all hope were dumb, + And, ere the Riddle wearied that no answer grew, + What still some sad twinge told him must abide its sum, + Yet, on some wild prospect that chance Glory knew, + + In this crude fashion sought to draw the Seraph out: + "Why dost thou moan? Will Man ne'er know thee as thou really art? + Mark how I am followed, how his bawdy rout, + His brutish hordes, have throve and fatted at my feeling heart! + + "How I have led him from 'way down the Scale, + While something better,--yes, I've dreamt 'twas you,-- + Devised those touches, made his red hand quail, + Reproved the bully when most fierce he slew." + + "Yet, look you, even when his best is told, + Some bias granted where awards divide; + Under the glass now--is he other than the beast of old, + Have your pricks struck deeper than his spotty hide?" + + Is your varnish more than the rogue's, whose saint + For a fast or vigil wipes him, then gross-daubs him new? + Ah! that I chance fouled him, helped flush the paint? + Tut, tut, that still outfathoms, yea, or me, or you. + + Come, be wise! Subscribe me proper! Sleek my Spoiler's hand, + So its foul grip hallow, thought a blight before,-- + Avouch it mine that grace that haunts me while the Heavens stand, + Since first my gray dawn dimmed it 'mong white lights of yore. + + Why should'st thou sorrow? Why those bleeding feet? + Thy humble garment? Yon rapt, far-off gaze? + The voice that falters thro' its dim entreat? + Thy brow, sore pondering of this thankless maze,-- + + Thy brow, where lo!--ah, 'tis the riddle which I blind pursue-- + Yon fond star frets it and divides thy gloom: + Hark! Wilt thou not lend it me? In guise of True, + Let its rose be grafted on my baser bloom? + + Since, how then still goodlier might my outward show; + My pose, my policy, each brood of shame, + Which my wily statists at their game of draw-- + My foxy henchmen--give a smoother name; + + How still more potent were my toils than now,-- + When "Nay" spoke gently Glory, "that out-goes my leave: + How might I stand me where the high Fates bow + Before the Will, that crowns no issue not thine own achieve." + + "What! Thou wilt not?" Came the fierce respond, + As on deep Night there rose a mocking and a damned wail, + "Mark how I justify my bitter bond, + How where fools refuse me there I grim assail!" + + When, forth, on its fell errand, went a grisly hand, + As the dread skies shook them and the winds spoke hoarse, + To grasp the star no wheedling parley, nor no harsh command, + May impious sever from its bounden course. + + Nay, for one foul moment gripped it, made the Jewel press + Those hairy temples where the gross thoughts strive + To vie the light no false faith borrows, so its sheen may bless + And cloak the trickster while his jugglings thrive; + + But like a shadow shall its wonder chill: + So even here: it left more pinched the low brow there, + Yet, as if sorry even for unrighteous will, + Made still, for ruth, the base ridge wear, + At upward blazon 'tward yon veiled Deeps, + Where the lights ensky them past the zenith star, + A blot--a bruise, whose fiery throb no opiate sleeps, + A branding, brazen, yet a piteous scar; + + Which, in his better hour, he, the ogre, Greed, + Applying to its sorry wound the comfort of the salve, + Which 'gainst Time's woe, for even him, the high Hopes breed, + Allays that brutal sting--his love of Rule and lust of Have. + + But out, alas! When sad companion of the fated Night, + Whence, struggling tho' her bitter spur, his dark will came, + He aims to conjure with yon gentler Light, + To screen his knavish Cant, filch Glory's name; + When cloaked in practise, till the Heavens doubt, + False hopes estrange him with his franker star; + How vengeful then, how giant grim, stands fiery out + Yon thievish, brazen, branding Scar! + + + + + TO ENGLAND: A FORECAST. + +(With a side-light on Kipling's verse "The Islanders.") + + + "Those flanneled fools at the wicket, + Those muddied Oafs at the goal." + + Oh yes, make no doubt,--you shall need them; + If not now, at some near-upon time, + P'rhaps fast as your mothers dare breed them, + Those fools of his militant rhyme. + + For, tho' it be not a day that covers + What stern Reckoners, withal, must try, + And, ere Retribution that hovers + Shall swoop down on the Greed and the lie; + + Yet, sure as red War do thin them, + Your brave ranks dished cold on his tray, + Shall your wits study hard how to win them-- + Adding craft to his ravenous play-- + + Those flanneled fools where they dally, + With yet good trick o' the human left, + Who trace, thro' the bounce and the rally, + The gross hand of the clumsiest theft; + + If still at his feet, the sad demon of Glory, + Whose yet Star screens the Nemesis there, + You trail foul the white mantle which Story, + Long proud, deemed you worthy to wear. + + Have him drink, each Oaf, till he drains it, + The sad rue of your rank abuse, + Till he purge, where your grim lip stains it, + The white, passioned font of the Truce. + + And you spill 'gainst some Day that darkens, + The sweet blood which more blood must cleanse, + To appease her, who evermore hearkens, + With an ear 'bove all mortal mens'-- + + Whose hand, tho' thy now scarce regards it, + Nay, with brute challenge her great bond bails, + 'Gainst some audit, how so she retards it, + Holds still those immutable scales, + Whose tallies, past mortal doubting, + Shall yet flame their etern script, + Set forth b'yond what small gods flouting, + Their word in your heart's-blood dipp'd. + + For out of the sad soil reeking, + Unstilled while the blood-rain falls, + Even there, goes a great Wrong seeking, + From Camp and from pesthouse calls. + + Seeking--wondering, though waiting, + Why so patient the ordering Stars; + All-wisdomed Wills why so lating + The Just which no time-let bars. + + Seeking--nay, all but finds it, + In the path you must now pursue, + The scourge, where some grim Fate winds it + With her law of the outraged True; + + In the course now blind-blazed before you, + Where, still warning her augurs stand, + Invoking the love she bore you, + For stay of your ruthless hand. + + Oh yes, you shall ill do without them, + Those fools his rash fancy drew; + But then, shall your conscience not doubt them, + Shall they not lack faith in _you_? + + Shall then not the dead Days taunt you, + Break their graves, and, with wild surmise, + Fierce-ghosting the Coming haunt you, + Ensanguine the placid skies? + + Oh, yes; Come Heaven or Hell, you shall need them, + Where Unjust has so monst'red the score, + Her purgers-in-fee, ere you breed them, + Till Shame be your harlot no more! + + + + + WAR. + + + By his blood-red furrow, as of yore-- + The fierce acre he tends, since, her theme in chief, + Story stained with him her leaf, + Nay, since when, come not-yet of age, + She but babbled her page-- + Chance, long bygones before-- + Heeled and flush, in his bruiser's trim, + Howe'er wistful at core, + Walketh the War. + Never a laugh dares sport with him, + Only anon the luridest smile + Rallies his gloom awhile, + Ere it hang as before. + + By the reek of his furrow-- + Those dank pastures, whose soil, + Moistened by ages, augur his toil; + Which his scourge-hands have fed, + Whose come-up and store + Have quickened and bred + On his innings of yore, + On the blood-sweat and broil-- + Still walketh the War; + Broad-cast flings his dripping grain, + Lest, unpurged of tare and weed, + God's dear harvest come in vain, + While the Devil nurse his breed. + + Lest, Earth's Mighties, sick for more + Lack of grist to heap their store, + Sigh that Luck should be so out; + Why the slut so meanly heed + The sore measure of their need; + What blind Fates may be about? + + While, perchance, the grim sower there, + Fierce and blood-strewing Mars, + Uneasy his honors wear, + Inglorious, the ancient scars, + And his weed-hands, the plain and dim, + Be not thought the husbands of Him, + He, who gathereth the stars. + + Lest his tithe and offering, the War, + From a heart, thought inconstant and meek, + Appease not The Evermore; + And, in their hallowed and upward seek, + Less pious now than before, + The rue and the languishing grue, + The fall-away reek of the blood-laden stew, + Hit not His nostril, while gentler strife, + Cravens the breed of the eager life, + And, unearned, unworthy, her sober ease, + She yeaneth the Peace. + + And still, by his furrow, lusting and grim, + While his seed-hand drips, + Sowing and reaping, tending his chore, + As he waileth his hymn-- + That fierce dirge evermore + Blown hoarse from his lips-- + Towers the War. + But who be the council and senate of him? + Who be his teamsmen, where be the whips? + There in the ghost-light, taunting and strange? + There where all visions pale them and range? + There where all time-light, tho' vaunting its star, + The hushes come numbing, so voiceless and far? + + Yet there, even there, evermore, + Since first streameth a dawn, + Hardy and wild, tho' ungrown, + Tolling his death-song, muffling their lore, + The brave lyrics of life, + Speeds not the strife, + Stalks not the War? + As he moody fulfills those inscrutable Wills-- + At one hand, the Spirit's, on the other, the Sod's, + That anointed of Gods; + Here, that fierce purger, the Truth's, + There, the healing, the infinite Ruth's, + Divinely at odds-- + Those miracled Twain, + Deep-twinning, past name, + From whose life-streaming well, + Whose concept and womb, + Floweth birth-song and knell, + Issue cradle and tomb. + + Here and there, evermore, + Since first lifted a prime, + And mortal with him, + Father Hazy, old Time, + Untokened and dim, + From the brood-mists of yore, + His chief breather was bore; + Craving and unsated still, + Feedeth the War. + On one hand, the God-will, + On the other, the Man's, + Bounden a chooser, or liege to the chance? + Who shall assign it? Each where it fall? + Prove the parts from the Whole? + How may they plead--Doer, and deed? + Response, 'gainst the Call? + Is there a name for the appeal and the claim, + From the shaping to Shaper, + The Judger that scans, + While dim Fates yet fulfill, + Exalting ordain, + Thro' the stress and the pain, + That high something, the Will, + Bid it rise to the answer, + Tho' one with the Plan's? + + Ay,--shall the soul not be held to the vast reply? + Or, shall its dower of light, + Widowed of wonder, sad mate with the Night, + Like what fierce-flaunting Sun's, + When its pomp is done, + Fail him and die? + Be the soul, its selfhood a dream, + But some phantom-fed gleam? + Past yon torches that burn, + Unbarred may no high suit go? + But beggared, unmorrowed, never to know, + Unvisioned etern, + Behold not, with humbled, tho' how larger eyes, + The Fountains that rise? + + + + + CLIO. + + + From out my tossed and wayward page, + Where yet to prompt it, broad and clear, + God and demon struggling wage-- + Thoughts of hope gainst things of Fear-- + Something lifts: How should I know + Why or whence, save that in light, + Above my monitors of boding Night-- + Tally-hands that warning draw, + With my good Augurs, joint indite, + Checked, but sure, the founded law-- + It gently calls in thy behoof, + Rounding my unfinished verse, + Clinching, as from pith of proof, + What the lines but faint rehearse, + While, to deep tho' far-off chords, + It voiceth low these simple words: + + "Trust no foul, to frame best end, + Lest some taint the high Stars rue, + Dark infect all fresher True, + Subtly foil its yet portend; + And, twice blind with brute unheed, + Life's close cypher harder read: + Lest unto all after time, + With the burden of my rhyme, + The unholy jar do foully blend, + Grudge and mar its noblest chime: + Burden, with whose nameless Deep, + Tho' sad paths dim courses keep, + Yet repeats, invoking still, + Anthemed, the responsive will, + Suffered federate with the Prime." + + "Have thy ways confess me just, + Lest the Fate, whose hand unfolds + Devious what the world-lust holds, + Shut out all bound twixt thee and dust: + Lest large things, that she did write, + Tricked of faith and worthy scope-- + Hence, unmusicked of the Hope-- + Juggling blot my tablet's white; + Nay, in her despair to shape the Soul, + She report ye foul, and tear my Scroll." + + + + + AVE PAX. + + + From forth the hidden, brooding heart of Nature lifts a sigh, + A wordless, dim beseech, as if of tremulous Life, + A heave that groaning speaks, withal: "And what am I, + And all my stars, and myriad thing, and Breath arife + As with some doom that hears not, some blind call to be? + Shall my mute yearning ever rend the pall of Night? + This bond be lifted, and those wills be free? + My heart swell holy t'ward some only Light?" + + "And shall my pains unburden, some glad voice be mine? + The feuds surcease them--the brutal onset and the bitter stress? + This chalice sweeten, flow with heavenly wine? + My brood uncurse me, who how fain would bless, + Till, O, some angeled Pity from these bowels leap, + A sweeter wisdom of all ills make ease, + And those dreams fulfil them that fond-haunt my sleep: + Shall ever on my sore, o'erwatched brow sit promised Peace?" + + And out of stillier Deeps--unfathomed, shrouded than the tomb-hush came-- + A Vision rose upon her stony, sad, beblinded eyes:-- + A passioned Shrine, where smiling lay, in chastening flame, + The white child, Truth--a seraph winging, 'gainst its mighty Rise, + + Past Pain and Evil, all fierce brood they bore; + While Justice in the holy fire saints her purging rod + For infinite Ruth: But 'bove them all, in state no other heaven wore, + Abounding Patience sat, in likeness of unutterable God! + + + + + ALPHA. + + + Primer than all the Ages, + One with the Evermore, + Key to Life's sybil pages, + Prophet whose only lore, + + Time, tho' he muse the Writing-- + Why so crabbed the cypher run, + Shall yet word to the heart's inviting + Clear-copied than myriad Sun. + + * * * * * + + Vaster than all relation, + Divine, tho' mid Dark he grew, + Lest, paltering the fierce negation, + Unblest come the only True! + + + + + OMEGA. + + + The goal is ever; all things tend; + Faiths must waver; Love shall mend; + Never issue come to rest-- + Earthen course, or starry span, + Will of God, or heart of man-- + Pillowed not upon His breast. + + + + + GREATNESS. + + + O, thou, the fierce englamored, + Hence, at never cease, invoked of man, + Who, in the vast procession of the sybil days, + Holds up the light he fain would follow, but may not conceive; + Whose boundless charter and whose nameless goal outpasseth Time:-- + Hast thou, on sufferance of thy liege, the Truth + The Same, unwearied on whose fiat waits the mutinous Dark, + Whose breath, withal, fans bright the spheres, + Concords the music of their millioned primes; + Whose utter Essence, tho' in substance clad, + Yon skies contain not, tho' the heart may hold:-- + Hast thou, the warrant winked-at, yet the trust, supreme, + On behalf of privilege that might all beseech-- + Some love past limit, save its ever self-- + Hast thou, thus, wandered from those shores afar, + Thy starry synods and the hosting lights, + To meet thine image in these mortal ways, + So fangled, paltried, and so bitter small-- + Thine mighty image, which no shadow frets-- + Such slave to glozing aspect and rude things of Here, + So pent in durance to the marble law, whose + nurse are grim coercion and the bloody hand? + But, shalt thou not change it, till its lines enlarge, + False take-offs dwindle, and their craft stand out, + Nor mate vain-glory for vile thrift of both, + And fierce engendering of their dwarfish breed? + Shalt thou not change it, let Fame's note come true; + For her brazen trumpet the small silvery flute, + Which draws its heart-strains from the pith of Just, + And winds accordant with the patient soul? + Shall its gloried flame not whiter burn, + The snuff and dross attract no more, + Set lurid off thy streaming torch, + Whose glow and essence than the sun-paths fed, + Outpeers the lustre of their myriad fount, + The solemn, fiery-bearing, the uncompassed Night? + + Yea, shalt thou not change it, bid thine features grow, + The lines more matching, scope and plan more true, + Dispel refraction and all hemming False, + Which, girt with mortal tribulation, hang + Their warping shadows twixt the Light and thee? + Shall Great be greater not, tho' it lowly comes, + The reward o'ertook not ere the Right say well? + Shalt thou sink hellward not the sorry law, + Which bids rude Strength--be it brain, or brawn's-- + Sit, lofty scorning, by the counseling heart, + So unaccompanied place its monstrous tribute at vain + Feet of pride, and brutish idols of the adoring sense, + On specious plea of covetous ambition--all its rage to have and wield-- + Give wage to sorrow than be frankly served + By lasting wisdom and the patient hope, + While Policy and Smug Expedience wink Fresh Cues at all? + + Shall thy fair likeness not refigured speak, + Each trait come moulded t'ward this crowning True-- + That, Mind, the mightiest, shall outsee itself, + No gift, not servant, round more full the Soul, + Nor in the bounteous equipment find + The meanest haughty crest, nay tricksiest spur upon that crest, + Whereon to hang the damned assurance of a law + Exempting answer to the gauging Just; + But from the grace and undeserved oblation draw, + Bring heavenly down--whether in man or men, + In gathered Nations, or the singler few-- + Fresh-purposed to the will, fresh trusting + And sustaining there, the guardian angel of humility, + The lifting spirit of the thankful heart? + + Shalt thou not make it goodly clear, + 'Tis not Endeavor which alone achieves, + Save as it aim averts not, but for grace upholds, + Crowns true some spirit, would set struggling forth, + At vast contention and in emulous pride, + Yon speechless comment which the Hopes give out, + For fresh construction of the rigid text, + The nice enactment, tho' dispiteous code, + Whose leased expression and whose outward sum + Are Nature's equities and ways about? + + Ay, shall thus, fresh copied not, thine image shine; + Shalt thou not thus acquit thyself, re-message Faith, + The act affirm her, and the daily thought, + Full-knowing that her life lies there, and only hostage unto groping man? + Shalt thou not thus draw gracious near, + Till all hearts enfold thee, and, in their rude despite, + The scoring Fates cry wondering out, + "Our worst is done; there is now no more; + Our record writes itself, to justice dedicate + And happy Good." + If not--alas, misprision and the futile trust! + If not--if Destiny still a boggler stand, + Knows Hence from Hither, nor which way were best, + If yet the rude purveyor, Time, + Finds in the vast commission and despatch of him, + In his prospects and his comings-on, + The near or far, unfeatured still that dream of thee, + No Perfect ever, scarce thy better there, + But that blots shall lasting stain it, give it + Fresh relief, traduce the glory he had meant + Hold forth; if yet the Vain come worshipped, + And the Brute must thrive, more subtly nourished, + But its breed the same, while the Free, + Tho' of outward credit, wear a golden clog, + Pollutes his title, and defaults the heart: + In few, if Fact be consecrate, the Brain its God, + No Faith to hallow, save what Reason hold, + Rank-rooting never in no soil but Self, + Till Hope, an exile--say she breathe at all-- + Strangered and out of rights, eats her own heart, + In weary banishment and quail of man:-- + If this be so, if that could be--were it better not, + Thus tricked and thwarted of thy clearer self, + This Present, pathless, with worse maze before-- + Were it better not, white days should cease them, + And the Stars to roll, invite disruption, and, thro' wrack + Of things, with leveling Chaos plead afresh some chance + For nobler being and the worthier life? + Or, say, that doubting vastly his at all retrieve, + Since still petitioned on crude lines of This, + Grudged, narrowed, and beset with voidless happenings of the mortal hour: + Say that: + Hence, judging nothing blessed that he might contrive, + And, lest things that had been from their graves stand forth, + Teem their once imperfections, all infirm they bore, + Yea, on mere vision of the dread event, + Cry wildly out against the Call, + That, taunting, drew them from Death's perfect shade, + To stalk once more, at dull repeat, + Or fevered rush--one goal for both-- + Their weary paces in some time-bound Here, + Its hope unpremised, and no Hence made out: + Say that--all that--and, were it better not, were it not wise, + If yet so judging from what lay at hand, + Such guess to go by and provide a cue-- + Were it better not, were it not well, + Might faith not do it, and the sense subscribe, + Let it come to this, if words may broach it, + May bear out the thought: to this--that man call down, + Call clamorous down, as only umpire twixt + All What and Not; twixt blind Reliance-- + Her yet remnant there--her fond contention, + And the crucial Fact; as sole unraveler + Of thick webs of False; for lasting clearance + Of the perjured Fates, that usurp thin image + To the trick of True--Call wildly down, + All hearts clean emptied of their bane, the pride-- + If Miracle knew how; might holily, not grossly, do it-- + No breather left not, whom the riddance bore + Not in its sorry and unhallowed stead-- + Crude absence presenced, and new light let in-- + Some sacred, lofty, and prophetic strain, + Which so should dare it, and, + Which, curb to Fear, did dread no Judgment, + Not appealed with this--that each cause that + Drew him, and each star that led, + Must find him shelter, nay, close-challenged, stand + His clear accessory before the fact, + Like found, in common, with indicted man:-- + Which so should dare-- + All this premise yielded, and its case at rest-- + Call fondly down, + While the infinite Mercies, sitting wide 'bove All, + Did, scruteless Justicers, take up the claim, + Which Pain and Sorrow for the world-heart draws, + And, which, past all precedent, would thus call down-- + Ere Grace pronounce it, ere its fiat fall, + Against some boundless Issue, some yet Pure toward, + Unstained, surely, by gross touch of him, + Man's wayward intimate, sore licensed Time, + For his purgation and clear suit of all-- + Would dare call down--yea, righteous down-- + All breathers joining, of a mind for once, + Accord achieved, and a truce at last, + No thought so common, nor no wish so near + As that this scene be halted, and the long act done, + Its show a burden, and its flaunt a woe,-- + 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. + + + This is he: the same, who on the warrant of a man + Stood up, gave Fortune battle; to her bitterest face + Cried out, "I'll front your minions ere their slave-hand trace + On free men's backs, in sorry writing as no other can, + The crooked cypher which smug worldlings plan, + Expound, to key and color of their lust-fed wills, + As the all-in-all a tardy Destiny fulfills, + By its star, ports safe, 'gainst stress of man, + Her, hereto, drifting and unruddered van. + + The same, who had his breeding at their rude expense, + Whose hardy training, to the pithy core, + So took, each fated tutor wonders evermore + Who wed such aptness to mere mortal sense. + In the gross, a bear; broad streak of fox; unsaintly, grim; + Withal, what Titan's mettle gave its heat to him, + What Spark re-tempered, that may ne'er grow cold, + This hero's substance from a peasant's mold? + + + + + CECIL RHODES. + + + Equipped, who doubts, above Life's common leave, + Where, privy to her council, mind and will + Bar lesser men, past plea of question, do fulfill + The searchless Fates--What did this man achieve + That Hope should stand deject, should at his parting grieve? + What bated sum of human ill + Files now, along with Wrong, its lessened bill? + What brutish yokes less hardened cleave? + How did he ease them--with what large conceive? + What forces muster 'gainst the Dark, but their array + Broke from the leadership of trusting Day, + Gave faction life, grew to command, + And, cozening, won him from the straighter way-- + The same, in whose plain view yon heavens stand, + Rear wide this word, tho' blurred with Dust, + "That truly great must first be just." + + + + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + + Stalk Right, from crafty cover of the Might; + Commend your passes with the opportune; + Expound this lesson, never learnt too soon-- + To rate all vision by the outward sight; + Hold all truth misty, save yon tricksy light, + Which fatuous dazzles from the specious star, + Where worldly holdings, hedged with mortgage, are, + Each brazen title which still suffered write + Such scribes, rude-figured, on the scroll of Fate: + All this--and yet, who doubts but they fulfill, + Tho' at sorry single, some more general Will, + Hold dumb intelligence with Wisdom's state; + That, tho' locked in cypher yet the issue read, + Their blatant faction, 'gainst some halcyon date, + Works out, affirming, whence they silent speed, + His Council perfect, with no voice at odds, + The boundless findings of all-patient God's? + + + + + SALISBURY. + + + 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? + + + + + 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? + + 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? + + 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? + + 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. + + 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, + + 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; + + 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; + + 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; + + 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; + + So pledged alone endure, enlarge, + 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. + + 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. + + 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-- + + 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; + + 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. + + + + + 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, + + 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. + + 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? + + 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; + + 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, + + 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. + + 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. + + 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? + + [3] A sequel to lines on page 84. + + + + + 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. + + 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? + + + + + 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. + + 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, + + 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? + + [Illustration: The End] + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Boer War Lyrics, by Louis Selmer + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44641 *** diff --git a/44641-h.zip b/44641-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7189015..0000000 --- a/44641-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/44641-h/44641-h.htm b/44641-h/44641-h.htm index 9ef2d5a..a7842b7 100644 --- a/44641-h/44641-h.htm +++ b/44641-h/44641-h.htm @@ -3,7 +3,7 @@ <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> <head> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> <title> The Project Gutenberg eBook of Boer War Lyrics, by Louis Selmer. </title> @@ -76,42 +76,7 @@ display: inline-block; text-align: left;} </style> </head> <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Boer War Lyrics, by Louis Selmer - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Boer War Lyrics - -Author: Louis Selmer - -Release Date: January 10, 2014 [EBook #44641] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOER WAR LYRICS *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44641 ***</div> <hr /> @@ -2384,385 +2349,6 @@ One year later—on appearance of his “Three Years’ War.”</h2> <hr /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Boer War Lyrics, by Louis Selmer - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOER WAR LYRICS *** - -***** This file should be named 44641-h.htm or 44641-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/4/6/4/44641/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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