"Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once
Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,
O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles
And left dry ashes; over trenches
With nameless dead; o'er cities starving
Under a rain of fire; through wards of
Down which a groaning diapason
From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers,
Of desolate women in their far-off
Waiting to hear the step that never comes!
O men and brothers! let that voice be heard.
War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword!
Fear not the end.
There is a story
In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,
And round the fire the Mongol shepherds
With grave responses listening unto it:
Once, on the errands of his mercy bent,
Buddha, the holy and benevolent,
Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look,
Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook,"O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy
Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate."The unarmed Buddha looking, with no
Of fear and anger, in the monster's face,
In pity said, "Poor fiend, even thee I love."Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror
To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence
Into the form and fashion of a
And where the thunder of its rage was heard,
Circling above him sweetly sang the bird:"Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song,"And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!"
