The Ploughing of the Sword.

"They shall beat their swords into Plough-shares." Isaiah, II, 4.

The ploughing of the Sword Breaks up the greensward deep, And stirs the old foundations Where the baleful passions sleep; The quiet beauty of the vales It rudely rends away, And turns the roots of the riven flowers To the scorching eye of day. And then, they madly sow The seeds of bitter strife, Ambition, wrath, revenge, And stern contempt of life. They wildly scatter o'er the land Dissension, pain, and care, And fright away the birds of peace That fain would carol there. Now call the reapers forth, With the thundering cannon's roar, Hark! to the rush of an armed host Like the surge on a rocky shore, With tramp and clang, the warrior's heel Doth the red wine-press tread, And heavily roll the loaded wains With their burdens of the dead. They reap with murderous sickle, Mid the shrill trumpet's cry, Till the mightiest and the lowest, In equal ruin lie. Till the screaming vulture whets his beak, Where the blood-pools blot the green, And the gaunt hyena prowls at night His dire repast to glean. They store their carnage spoil In History's garner wide, A reeking overflowing crop Of crime, and woe, and pride, The widow's pang, the orphan's tear The exulting tyrant's might, And the cry of souls for ever lost, As they take their fearful flight. Oh! mourning Mother Earth, Lift up thy heart and pray That the ploughing of the sword Be for ever done away, And thine own meekly-cultur'd fields With nodding corn be dress'd, To feed thy children, ere they take Their slumber in thy breast. And thou, terrific Sword! Whose ministry accurs'd Doth waste the span of mortal life That was so brief at first, God speed the day when promis'd Peace Shall reign from shore to shore, And thou, into a plough-share beat, Convulse the world no more.