Disarmament

"Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more     Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,     O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped     And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped     With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow     Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe     Down which a groaning diapason runs     From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons     Of 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 told     In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,     And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit     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 fate     Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate."     The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace     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 sank     To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank     Into 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!