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Show Put Up the Sword. I have sung of the soldier's glory As I never shall sing again; I have gazed on the shambles gory, J have smelled of the slaughter pen. There is blood in the ink well clotted. There are stains on the. laurel leaf, And the pages of fame are blotted With the tears of a needless grief. The bird is slaughtered for fashion. And the beast is killed for sport: And never the word compassion Is whispered at Moloch's 'court. For the parent-seal in the water Is slain, and her child must die. That some sister or wife or daughter Her beauty may beautify. And the merciful thought we smother. For such is the way of man,-As man,-As we murder the useless mother For the "unborn astrakan. But a season of rest comes never For the rarest sport of all; Will Hi: patience endure forever. Who notch the sparrow's fall? When the volleys of hell are' sweeping The sea and the battle plain. Do you think that our God is sleeping sleep-ing And never to wake again? When hunger alid ravenous fever Are slaying the wasted frame. Shall we worship the real deceiver. The devil that men call Fame? We may swing the censer to cover The odor of blood in vain; God asks us, over and over, "Where is thy brother. Cain?" James Jeffrey Roche iir the Century. |
