Disarmament

"PUT up the sword!" The voice of Christ once moreSpeaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reapedAnd left dry ashes; over trenches heapedWith nameless dead; o'er cities starving slowUnder a rain of fire; through wards of woeDown which a groaning diapason runsFrom tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sonsOf desolate women in their far-off homes,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 toldIn Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sitWith grave responses listening unto itOnce, 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 fateIs sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate."The unarmed Buddha looking, with no traceOf fear or anger, in the monster's face,In pity said: "Poor fiend, even thee I love."Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sankTo hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrankInto the form and fashion of a dove;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!"