“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 or 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!”

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

TUBAL CAIN.

  Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,
    In the days when earth was young;
  By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
    The strokes of his hammer rung: 
  And he lifted high his brawny hand
    On the iron glowing clear,
  Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
    As he fashioned the sword and the spear. 
  And he sang:  “Hurrah for my handiwork! 
    Hurrah for the spear and the sword! 
  Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
    For he shall be king and lord.”

  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!”