Poems About Peace

Old Kaspar took it from the boy Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find then in the garden, For there's many here about;And often when I go to plough The ploughshare turns them out.For many thousand men," said he,"Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes;"Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other for I could not well make out.But every body said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly:So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide,And many a childing mother then And newborn baby died:But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won;For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun:But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won And our good Prince Eugene";"Why 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine;"Nay--nay--my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory.

And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.""But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin:--"Why that I cannot tell," said he,"But 'twas a famous victory."

No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms;No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumèd heads are bowed;Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud.And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow,And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past;Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe.Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain,For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain;And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide;Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.

'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's graveThe flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save.By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew,And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain,And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain.The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay,Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air.Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave:She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field,Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield;The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave;No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave;Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps,Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell,When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom.Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb.

Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day;-- Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe,-- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day;-- Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall,With a touch, impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all;-- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day;-- 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grainWith an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain;-- Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment-day;-- Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done;In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won;-- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day;-- Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day;-- Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer; Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song;And loud amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din;And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade--And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these,Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts;

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred; And every nation that should lift againIts hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace!--and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies;But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

For then--laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine--All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand;Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fearFor to-morrow's lack of earning, and the hunger-Wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be gladOf his fellow's fall and mishap, to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed,Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

Oh, strange new wonderful justice! But for whom shall we gather the gain?For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labor in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man craveFor riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us, when none shall gather goldTo buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill,And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead;And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder, and the marvellous fiddle-bow,And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's; nor shall any lack a shareOf the toil and the gain of living, in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of to-day,In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak:We will it, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

Oh, why and for what are we waiting, while our brothers droop and die,And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by?

How long shall they reproach us, where crowd on crowd they dwell,--Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed hungry hell?

Through squalid life they labored, in sordid grief they died,--Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse:But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the doorFor the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent,--We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come then, since all things call us, the living and the dead,And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.

Come then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest,For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail,Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know:That the dawn and the day is coming, and forth the banners go.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy A gallant flower,--The crown-imperial. "Sure," said I, "Peace at the root must dwell."But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour What showed so well.

At length I met a reverend, good old man; Whom when for Peace I did demand, he thus began: "There was a prince of oldAt Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But, after death, out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;Which many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set.

"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth. For they that taste it do rehearse, That virtue lies therein,--A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth, By flight of sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you: Make bread of it; and that repose And peace which everywhereWith so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there."

Be with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streets,Unveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.

Thou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath our Western skies fulfilThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.

For art and labor met in truce,For beauty made the bride of use,We thank Thee; but, withal, we craveThe austere virtues strong to save,The honor proof to place or gold,The manhood never bought nor sold!

Oh make Thou us, through centuries long,In peace secure, in justice strong;Around our gift of freedom drawThe safeguards of thy righteous law:And, cast in some diviner mould,Let the new cycle shame the old!

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 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 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!"

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;Men start not at the battle-cry,-- O, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strifeFor truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year;A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot;The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown,--yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,-- The eternal years of God are hers;But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee flee in fear,Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here!

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave,Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire,And each one prayed for a strong steel blade As the crown of his desire:And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee,And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, And spoils of the forest free.And they sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew!Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire, And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart, Ere the setting of the sun,And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done;He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind,That the land was red with the blood they shed, In their lust for carnage blind.And he said: "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan,The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe;And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low.But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye,And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high.And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork!" And the red sparks lit the air;"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"-- And he fashioned the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands,Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And ploughed the willing lands;And sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain! Our stanch good friend is he;And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be.But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord,Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword!"

That rushing flood I had no power to meet,Nor power to flee: my present, future, past,Myself, my sorrow, and my sin I cast In utter helplessness at Jesu's feet:Then bent me to the storm, if such his will.He saw the winds and waves, and whispered. "Peace, be still!"

And there was calm! O Saviour, I have provedThat thou to help and save art really near:How else this quiet rest from grief and fear And all distress? The cross is not removed,I must go forth to bear it as before,But, leaning on thine arm, I dread its weight no more.

Is it indeed thy peace? I have not triedTo analyze my faith, dissect my trust,Or measure if belief be full and just, And therefore claim thy peace. But thou hast died,I know that this is true for me,And, knowing it, I come, and cast my all on thee.

It is not that I feel less weak, but thouWilt be my strength; it is not that I seeLess sin, but more of pardoning love with thee, And all-sufficient grace. Enough! and nowAll fluttering thought is stilled, I only rest,And feel that thou art near, and know that I am blest.

And the bald eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings To sparkle in my sight, O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that beauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, And brazen helmets dance, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; I know that bards have sung, And people shouted till the welkin rung, In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found a grave; I know that o'er their bones How grateful hands piled monumental stones. Some of those piles I've seen: The one at Lexington upon the green Where the first blood was shed, And to my country's independence led; And others, on our shore, The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore, And that on Bunker's Hill. Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; Thy "tomb," Themistocles, That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, And which the waters kiss That issue from the gulf of Salamis. And thine, too, have I seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, That, like a natural knoll, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, Watched by some turbaned boy, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, And hears, as life ebbs out, The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; But as his eye grows dim, What is a column or a mound to him? What, to the parting soul. The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Of drums? No, let me die Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, And the soft summer air, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, And from my forehead dries The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies Seem waiting to receive My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave The world when round my bed Wife, children, weeping friends are gatherèd, And the calm voice of prayer And holy hymning shall my soul prepare To go and be at rest With kindred spirits,--spirits who have blessed The human brotherhood By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

The flag of blood has been unfurled, Polluting God's pure day;Whilst, as each maddening people reels,War onward drives his scythed wheels,And at his horses' bloody heels Shriek Murder and Dismay.

Oft have I wept to hear the cryOf widow wailing bitterly;To see the parent's silent tearFor children fallen beneath the spear; And I have felt so soreThe sense of human guilt and woe,That I, in Virtue's passioned glow,Have cursed (my soul was wounded so) The shape of man I bore!Then come from thy serene abode,Thou gladness-giving child of God!And cease the world's ensanguined strife,And reconcile my soul to life; For much I long to see,Ere I shall to the grave descend,Thy hand its blessed branch extend,And to the world's remotest end Wave Love and Harmony!

Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun Startles the desert over Africa.

Thou art the rock of empire set mid-seas Between the East and West, that God has built; Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,While run thy armies true with his decrees;Law, justice, liberty,--great gifts are these. Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest, mixed and sullied with his country's guiltThe soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease!

Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite, Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, oneRejoices in the sheath, and hides from light. American I am; would wars were done!Now westward, look, my country bids good night,-- Peace to the world, from ports without a gun!

List, Songs! your watch is long! The soldiers' guard was brief,Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, Ye may not seek relief.

Go! wearing the gray of grief! Go! watch o'er the Dead in Gray!Go guard the private and guard the chief, And sentinel their clay!

And the songs, in stately rhyme, And with softly sounding tread,Go forth, to watch for a time--a time, Where sleep the Deathless Dead.

And the songs, like funeral dirge, In music soft and low,Sing round the graves,--whilst not tears surge From hearts that are homes of woe.

What though no sculptured shaft Immortalize each brave?What though no monument epitaphed Be built above each grave?

When marble wears away, And monuments are dust,--The songs that guard our soldiers' clay Will still fulfil their trust.

With lifted head, and steady tread, Like stars that guard the skies, Go watch each bed, where rest the dead, Brave Songs! with sleepless eyes.

And through his verse shall gleam The swords that flashed in vain,And the men who wore the gray shall seem To be marshalling again.

But hush! between his words Peer faces sad and pale,And you hear the sound of broken chords Beat through the poet's wail.

Through his verse the orphans cry-- The terrible undertone!And the father's curse and the mother's sigh, And the desolate young wife's moan.

I sing, with a voice too low To be heard beyond to-day,In minor keys of my people's woe; And my songs pass away.

To-morrow hears them not-- To-morrow belongs to fame:My songs--like the birds'--will be forgot, And forgotten shall be my name.

And yet who knows! betimes The grandest songs depart,While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes Will echo from heart to heart.

The blue Potomac stainless rolls, And Mission Ridge is gemmed with fern;On many a height sleep gallant souls, And still the blooming years return.

Thank God! unseen to outward eye, But felt in every freeman's breast,From graves where fallen comrades lie Ascends at Nature's wise behest,

With springing grass and blossoms new, A prayer to bless the nation's life,To freedom's flower give brighter hue, And hide the awful stains of strife.

O, Boys in Blue, we turn to you, The scarred and mangled who survive;No more we meet in grand review, But all the arts of freedom thrive.

Still glows the jewel in its shrine, Won where the James now tranquil rolls;Its wealth for all, the glory thine, O memory of heroic souls!

Contemn'd I mean;--for who would chuseSo vile a subject for the Muse? 'Twas once the noblest of his wishesTo fill his paunch with scraps from dishes,For which he'd parch before the grate,Or wind the jack's slow-rising weight,(Such toils as best his talents fit,)Or polish shoes, or turn the spit;But, unexpectedly grown rich inSquire Domvile's family and kitchen,He pants to eternize his name,And takes the dirty road to fame;Believes that persecuting witWill prove the surest way to it;So with a colonel at his back,The Libel feels his first attack;He calls it a seditious paper,Writ by another patriot Drapier;Then raves and blunders nonsense thickerThan alderman o'ercharged with liquor:And all this with design, no doubt,To hear his praises hawk'd about;To send his name through every street,Which erst he roam'd with dirty feet;Well pleased to live in future times,Though but in keen satiric rhymes. So, Ajax, who, for aught we know,Was justice many years ago,And minding then no earthly things,But killing libellers of kings;Or if he wanted work to do,To run a bawling news-boy through;Yet he, when wrapp'd up in a cloud,Entreated father Jove aloud,Only in light to show his face,Though it might tend to his disgrace. And so the Ephesian villain firedThe temple which the world admired,Contemning death, despising shame,To gain an ever-odious name.

Wharton can only swear by fits, And strutting Hal is off the hooks; Old Godolphin, full of spleen, Made false moves, and lost his Queen:Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane: But a Prince of high renown Swore he'd rather lose a crown,"Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."

Our merchant-ships may cut the line, And not be snapt by privateers.And commoners who love good wine Will drink it now as well as peers: Landed men shall have their rent, Yet our stocks rise cent, per cent.The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain: We'll bring on us no more debts, Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes;"And the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

The towns we took ne'er did us good: What signified the French to beat?We spent our money and our blood, To make the Dutchmen proud and great: But the Lord of Oxford swears, Dunkirk never shall be theirs.The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; But true Englishmen may fill A good health to General Hill:"For the Queen now enjoys her own again."

With his finger on the meadowTraced a winding pathway for it,Saying to it, "Run in this way!" From the red stone of the quarryWith his hand he broke a fragment,Moulded it into a pipe-head,Shaped and fashioned it with figures;From the margin of the riverTook a long reed for a pipe-stem,With its dark green leaves upon it;Filled the pipe with bark of willow,With the bark of the red willow;Breathed upon the neighboring forest,Made its great boughs chafe together,Till in flame they burst and kindled;And erect upon the mountains,Gitche Manito, the mighty,Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe,As a signal to the nations. And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,Through the tranquil air of morning,First a single line of darkness,Then a denser, bluer vapor,Then a snow-white cloud unfolding,Like the tree-tops of the forest,Ever rising, rising, rising,Till it touched the top of heaven,Till it broke against the heaven,And rolled outward all around it. From the Vale of Tawasentha,From the Valley of Wyoming,From the groves of Tuscaloosa,From the far-off Rocky Mountains,From the Northern lakes and riversAll the tribes beheld the signal,Saw the distant smoke ascending,The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. And the Prophets of the nationsSaid: "Behold it, the Pukwana!By the signal of the Peace-Pipe,Bending like a wand of willow,Waving like a hand that beckons,Gitche Manito, the mighty,Calls the tribes of men together,Calls the warriors to his council!" Down the rivers, o'er the prairies,Came the warriors of the nations,Came the Delawares and Mohawks,Came the Choctaws and Camanches,Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet,Came the Pawnees and Omahas,Came the Mandans and Dacotahs,Came the Hurons and Ojibways,All the warriors drawn togetherBy the signal of the Peace-Pipe,To the Mountains of the Prairie,To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. And they stood there on the meadow,With their weapons and their war-gear,Painted like the leaves of Autumn,Painted like the sky of morning,Wildly glaring at each other;In their faces stern defiance,In their hearts the feuds of ages,The hereditary hatred,The ancestral thirst of vengeance. Gitche Manito, the mighty,The creator of the nations,Looked upon them with compassion,With paternal love and pity;Looked upon their wrath and wranglingBut as quarrels among children,But as feuds and fights of children! Over them he stretched his right hand,To subdue their stubborn natures,To allay their thirst and fever,By the shadow of his right hand;Spake to them with voice majesticAs the sound of far-off waters,Falling into deep abysses,Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:-- "O my children! my poor children!Listen to the words of wisdom,Listen to the words of warning,From the lips of the Great Spirit,From the Master of Life, who made you! "I have given you lands to hunt in,I have given you streams to fish in,I have given you bear and bison,I have given you roe and reindeer,I have given you brant and beaver,Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl,Filled the rivers full of fishes:Why then are you not contented?Why then will you hunt each other? "I am weary of your quarrels,Weary of your wars and bloodshed,Weary of your prayers for vengeance,Of your wranglings and dissensions;All your strength is in your union,All your danger is in discord;Therefore be at peace henceforward,And as brothers live together. "I will send a Prophet to you,A Deliverer of the nations,Who shall guide you and shall teach you,Who shall toil and suffer with you.If you listen to his counsels,You will multiply and prosper;If his warnings pass unheeded,You will fade away and perish! "Bathe now in the stream before you,Wash the war-paint from your faces,Wash the blood-stains from your fingers,Bury your war-clubs and your weapons,Break the red stone from this quarry,Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes,Take the reeds that grow beside you,Deck them with your brightest feathers,Smoke the calumet together,And as brothers live henceforward!" Then upon the ground the warriorsThrew their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin,Threw their weapons and their war-gear,Leaped into the rushing river,Washed the war-paint from their faces.Clear above them flowed the water,Clear and limpid from the footprintsOf the Master of Life descending;Dark below them flowed the water,Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson,As if blood were mingled with it! From the river came the warriors,Clean and washed from all their war-paint;On the banks their clubs they buried,Buried all their warlike weapons.Gitche Manito, the mighty,The Great Spirit, the creator,Smiled upon his helpless children! And in silence all the warriorsBroke the red stone of the quarry,Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes,Broke the long reeds by the river,Decked them with their brightest feathers,And departed each one homeward,While the Master of Life, ascending,Through the opening of cloud-curtains,Through the doorways of the heaven,Vanished from before their faces,In the smoke that rolled around him,The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!

And growing rank in prosperous days of peace.Think you the evils of this world would ceaseWith war’s cessation? If God’s eyes know tears,Methinks He weeps more for the wasted yearsAnd the lost meaning of this earthly life—This big, brief life—than over bloody strife.Yea; there are mean, lean sins God must abhorMore than the fatted, blood-drunk monster, War.Looking from His place, looking from His high place among the stars,God saw a peaceful land—A land of fertile fields and golden harvests—and great cities whoseinnumerable spires pierced the vault of heaven, like bayonets of aninvading army.And God said, speaking unto Himself aloud, God said:‘Peace and power and plenty have I given unto this land; and thosetall steeples are monuments to Me.Now let My people reveal themselves, that I may see their works, donein My name in a fertile land of peace.I will withdraw Mine eyes from other worlds that I may behold them,that I may behold these people to whom I sent Christ—they whoseinnumerable spires pierce My blue vault like bayonets.’God saw the restless, idle rich in club and cabaret,Meat-gorged, wine-filled, they played and preened and danced till dawno’ day;They played at sports; they played at love; they played at being gay.They were but empty, silk-clad shells; their souls had leaked away.He saw the sweat-shop and the mill where little children toiled,The sunless rooms where mothers slaved and unborn souls were spoiled;While those whose greedy, selfish lives had thrust the toilers there,He saw whirled down broad avenues, clothed all with raiment fair.

He saw in homes made beautiful with all that gold can giveUnhappy souls at odds with life, not knowing how to live.He saw fair, pampered women turn from motherhood’s sweet joy,Obsessed with methods to prevent or mania to destroy.He saw men sell their souls to vice and avarice and greed;He heard race quarrelling with race and creed decrying creed;And shameful wealth and waste He saw, and shameful want and need.

He saw bold little children come from church and schoolroom, blindTo suffering of lesser things, unfeeling and unkind;He heard them taunt the poor, and tease their furred and featheredkin;And no voice spake from home or church to tell them this was sin.He heard the cry of wounded things, the wasteful gun’s report;He saw the morbid craze to kill, which Christian men called sport.

And then God hid His grieving face behind a wall of cloud,On earth they said, ‘A thunder-storm’—but God had wept aloud.