 | Songs in the twilight |  |
104
THE CHALLENGE TO THE SWORD.
“O thou sword of the Lord, how long will it be ere thou be quiet? Put up thyself into thy scabbard; rest, and be still.”
—Jer. xlvii. 6.
O sword of the Lord, wilt thou never be still?
How long wilt thou flash to destroy and to kill?
Return to the scabbard: rest, rest in the sheath!
Wilt thou never have done with the dark work of death?
How long wilt thou flash to destroy and to kill?
Return to the scabbard: rest, rest in the sheath!
Wilt thou never have done with the dark work of death?
O sword of the Lord, must the shriek rend the air,
The cry of the widow and child in despair?
Must the vineyard be wasted, the field trampled down,
And the festering dead choke the streets of the town?
The cry of the widow and child in despair?
Must the vineyard be wasted, the field trampled down,
And the festering dead choke the streets of the town?
Wilt thou never be sated with blood of the slain,
The moans of their anguish, their wounds, and their pain?
Are the harvests this green earth is ever to yield
Red harvests reaped down in the fierce battlefield?
The moans of their anguish, their wounds, and their pain?
Are the harvests this green earth is ever to yield
Red harvests reaped down in the fierce battlefield?
105
Sick at heart with thy triumphs, we ask thee how long
Wilt thou mow down the young, and the brave, and the strong?
Are War's carnage and carnival never to cease?
Shall the world never bask in the sunshine of peace?
Wilt thou mow down the young, and the brave, and the strong?
Are War's carnage and carnival never to cease?
Shall the world never bask in the sunshine of peace?
O sword of the Lord, sharp, furbished, and keen,
Thou art drunk with the blood of the slaughtered, I ween;
End, end, and for ever, the strife and the pain,
And the battle that hurtles aloud on the plain.
Thou art drunk with the blood of the slaughtered, I ween;
End, end, and for ever, the strife and the pain,
And the battle that hurtles aloud on the plain.
Rest, rest in thy scabbard; rust, rust in thy sheath;
Cease at last to lay low the thick swathes of death;
Sleep, if but for a season; be quiet, be still;
Of anguish and blood thou hast more than thy fill.
Cease at last to lay low the thick swathes of death;
Sleep, if but for a season; be quiet, be still;
Of anguish and blood thou hast more than thy fill.
Let it break, the glad day by prophets foretold,
When earth shall rejoice in the bright age of gold;
When the din of the conflict for ever is o'er,
And nation shall rise against nation no more!
When earth shall rejoice in the bright age of gold;
When the din of the conflict for ever is o'er,
And nation shall rise against nation no more!
Then the sword to a share shall be beaten and turned,
The spear to a pruning-hook, the battle-axe burned;
Then the use of the drum and the trumpet shall cease,
Or sound but to herald the long reign of peace.
The spear to a pruning-hook, the battle-axe burned;
Then the use of the drum and the trumpet shall cease,
Or sound but to herald the long reign of peace.
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