Swords and Plowshares

Front matter

SWORDS AND PLOWSHARES

Copyright, , by

Ernest Crosby

The God of War

The God of War

From the French of Théodore Jean

SO be it! Our globe is but a hell Of torments, crimes, and sins abhorred, Where Force by dint of fire and sword Subdues his victims all too well

O god whom patriots adore, I scorn thee; for in thee I see The symbol of barbarity. Therefore I hate thee, god of war!

As mothers curse thee, so curse I— Mothers whose sons were racked with pain, Whose mutilated bodies slain Are heaped in vain beneath the sky.

With pick and hammer let us rise And break this idol-shape of stone, Breathing forth slaughter from his throne Hid in the inmost shrine of lies.

Down with the temple which above Sets up a blood-bespattered rag! And let us with a world-wide flag Find freedom in the work of love.

Christianity and War

Christianity and War

From the German of Bodenstedt

TALK, if you will, of hero deed, Of clash of arms and battle wonders; But prate not of your Christian creed Preached by the cannon's murderous thunders.

And if your courage needs a test, Copy the pagan's fierce behavior; Revel in bloodshed east and west, But speak not with it of the Savior.

The Turk may wage a righteous war In honor of his martial Allah; But Thor and Odin live no more— Dead are the gods in our Valhalla.

Be what you will, entire and free, Christian or warrior each can please us; But not the rank hypocrisy Of warlike followers of Jesus.

The Victory

The Victory

From the Chinese of Lao-Tsu

HE who hath slain his thousands in the fray Should shed hot tears, and celebrate the day With funeral rites, such as wan mourners pay.

War and Hell

War and Hell

<>I WAR is hell," because it makes men devils. You and I, striving for a moment to squeeze or hack the life out of each other, are we not at once transformed into demons? Hell is ever man's handiwork.

<>II BRITISH victory in the Soudan! The enemy clung obstinately to the trenches, apd were bayonetted in them. Nothing could have been finer than the behavior of the troops." Nothing finer indeed! White Christian soldiers, three thousand miles from home, in the pay of white Christian bond-holders, bayonetting black Mohammedans for defending their native land, and setting the example of bloodshed to brown Mohammedans whom they had already trained to slaughter! Good God, is it too much to hope that the day may come when every sane man will shrink from running a bayonet into a fellow-creature as he would now shrink from torturing a baby? We look back with pity, contempt, and detestation on the times of the rack and wheel and fagot—we, who are still in the thick of the Dark Ages ourselves!

A thousandfold better to be a true Mussulman dervish fighting for his home, than one of these Chris-tian hypocrites emphasizing their barbarian butcheries with chaplains and crosses and Te Deums and every kind of shameless lie and blasphemy!

<>III HOW they buzzed round the fires at Smithfield, The black, perverse, froward, reverend clergy (Like June beetles round the hall lamp), Teaching the Gospel and knowing not the first word of it— More cruel, revengeful, bloodthirsty than the ignorant mob they instructed— Blind, malignant, pompous leaders of the blind!

And so to-day round the fires of war—the flash of artillery and glance of bayonets (But at safe distance, impotent), Again the dismal brood swarms—hysterical, smirking, grimacing— Still as oblivious of all their Master taught, Still going further than the thoughtless populace in their lust and frenzy, Still impious, blasphemous, sacrilegious, profane— Gloating like harpies over the nation's sins.

<>IV JUST a glimpse at the coast of England as we touch at Plymouth on our way up the Channel. What are those red spots on the shore? They are the red coats of soldiers breaking out like the blotches of scarlet fever all over the land. Poor, sick England, what foul disease have you got in your blood? Silly children may think as they look in the glass that the rash on their faces is pretty. And so you English are silly children. And you have inoculated my country too with your distemper. America has caught it and is proud of it. We pretend that we like to reel along with high temperature and drum-pulse beating loud. A few years ago man might travel from ocean to ocean without seeing a single epaulet: it was the glory of the land. But now we are as sick as any of you. The world is a great hospital of silly, sick nations, boasting of the number of their pestiferous pustules.

<>V THERE is "great rejoicing at the nation's capital." So says the morning's paper. The enemy's fleet has been annihilated. Mothers are delighted because other mothers have lost sons just like their own;

Wives and daughters smile at the thought of new-made widows and orphans; Strong men are full of glee because other strong men are either slain or doomed to rot alive in torments; Small boys are delirious with pride and joy as they fancy themselves thrusting swords into soft flesh, and burning and laying waste such homes as they themselves inhabit; Another capital is cast down with mourning and humiliation just in proportion as ours is raised up, and that is the very spice of our triumph. How could we exult without having a fellow man to exult over? Yesterday it was the thrill of grappling with him and hating him; To-day we grind our heel into his face and despise him. This is life—this is patriotism—this is rapture! But we—what are we, men or devils? and our Christian capital—what is it but an outpost of hell?

<>VI WHO are you at Washington who presume to declare me the enemy of anybody or to declare any nation my enemy? However great you may be, I altogether deny your authority to sow enmity and hatred in my soul.

I refuse to accept your ready-made enemies, and, if I did accept them, I should feel bound to love them, and, loving them, would you have me caress them with bombshells and bayonets? When I want enemies, I reserve the right to manufacture them for myself. If I am ever scoundrel enough to wish to kill, I will do my own killing on my own account and not hide myself behind your license. Before God your commissions and warrants and enlistment rolls, relieving men of conscience and independence and manhood, are not worth the paper they are written on. Away with all your superstitions of a statecraft worse than priestcraft! Hypnotize fools and cowards if you will, but for my part, I choose to be a man.

<>VII I AM no patriot. I do not wish my countrymen to overrun the world. I love the date-palm equally with the pine-tree, and each in its place. I am as true a friend to the banana and orange as to the pear and apple. I thank the genial breath of climate for making men different.

I am glad to know that, if my people succeed in spreading over the face of the earth, they will gradually differ from each other as they attune themselves to every degree of latitude and longitude. Humanity is no air to be strummed on one note or upon one instrument. It is a symphony where every note and instrument has its part, and would be sadly missed. I do not take the side of the cornet against the violin, for the cornet needs the violin. I am no patriot. I love my country too well to be a patriot.

<>VIII I SAW them take the blockhouse on the hill by storm. First advancing slowly in the woods in groups, dodging from tree to tree and firing rapidly, the machine gun grinding out death with its sharp metallic rattle, while the smell of powder fills the air. Now they rush into the open and up the steep slope. Some of them fall. One I see plunge backward down the hill with his arms in the air; another stumbles forward up-hill on his face and elbows. For an instant they waver; then up again they go. Men spring up from the ground at the top of the hill and run away.

The assailants disappear for a moment in invisible trenches, and then I see them, too, running beyond. There is a great hurrah; the flag comes down on the blockhouse and another goes up. They dance about like children, shouting, throwing up their caps, and waving their swords and muskets in a delirium of joy. I do not blame them. They have never felt such a thrill before. Shall we deprive them of the most ecstatic moment of their lives? Ecstasy with murder is better perhaps than the dull level of existence without. It would do them no good to go without murder. There is no good in going without things. The good consists in having something better than the things you go without. Oh, if they only knew that there is a higher ecstacy, a deeper thrill, an inexhaustible courage and contempt of death! Then how quickly they would let pistol and bayonet drop harmless from their hands!

<>IX HAIL to the hero! Decked out in blue, red, and gilt, as in warpaint— Rejoicing like a savage in a long head-feather and gold shoulder fringes—

Proud to commit with these adornments all the crimes for which he would be disgraced and punished as a felon without them— Modestly bearing on his breast a star and ribbon which say, "I am a hero," as plainly as the beggar's placard says "I am blind"— Followed by a brass band and bass drum, which screw up his courage at a pinch like the war dance and tom-tom of the Central African and red-skin— Vain of his manliness in the field while indulging in effeminate quarreling over the honors, at the rate of a month's quarreling to a half-hour's fighting— Admitting that he obeys orders without thinking, and thus proclaiming his complete abdication of conscience and intellect— Rushing home from the fray to advertise himself in the magazines at a hundred dollars a page— Hail to the hero!

O shade of Cervantes! Come back and draw for us another Don Quixote. Prick this bubble of militarism as you pricked that other bubble of knight-errantry. The world yearns for your reappearing. Come and depict the hero!

<>X BUT, you say, there have been good wars. Never, never, never! As I look back at our "good" war—at the indelible bloody splash upon our history—the four years' revel of hatred the crowded shambles of foiled Secession— I see that it was all a pitiable error. That which we fought for, the Union of haters by force, was a wrong, misleading cause the worship of bigness, the measure of greatness by latitude and longitude. A single town true enough to abhor slaughter as well as slavery would have been better worth dying for than all that tempestuous domain. From the seed then sown grew up imperialism and militarism and capitalism and a whole forest of stout, deep-rooted ills in whose shadow we lead an unhealthy, stunted life to-day. The incidental good—the freedom of the slaves, illusive, unsubstantial freedom at best, freedom by law but not from the heart—does it really quite balance the scales?

<>XI NAY, violence can only degrade a noble cause. Behold the French Revolution. Wave of brotherly love, sweeping over feudal France (When noblemen embraced coal-heavers and threw away their privilege and rank),

Breath from heaven, inspiring a nation with now life, What changed you into a frightful tempest, all hell raining and thundering and lightening upon the defenseless earth? Goddess of freedom and love, how were you transformed into the fiend of bloodshed and hate? Ah! they did not know, those Titanic lovers, that violence, however employed, drives out all liberty and love in the end. Violence curdles the love that wields it into hatred, and wherever it strikes, as from the drooping branch of a banyan tree, spring up fresh shoots of hate. Oh, if they had only known! And we, when another such wave passes over the land, shall we have learned? Shall we know the truth better than they?

<>XII DOWN with the tiger in each of us! He has his proper place, no doubt, in the economy of nature, but it is in the depths of our own private bottomless pit. There he growls and mutters as he chafes behind the bars. There is only one safe course to pursue: lock him up firmly and securely, and pay no heed to his subterranean roar.

<>XIII WHAT do they accomplish who take the sword? Now and then they cutoff the ear of a servant of the high priest; Quite as often they lose their own. While they who say, "Put up thy sword into its place," tho they die, yet succeed sometimes in changing the heart of the world.

<>XIV WHAT is true peace but conscious strength? What is war but conscious weakness seeking What is war but conscious weakness seeking to give proof of its strength? Peace is a god, not a goddess, a man not a woman— A brawny, bearded man of might, with nothing but the kindly look in his eyes to distinguish him from the vulgar giant. He can afford to smile at War, the headstrong boy, rushing, red-faced, blundering, blustering, with impetuous arms, hither and thither. Peace has outgrown all that, for Peace is a man.

<>XV THE old, old dream of empire— The dream of Alexander and Cæsar, of Tamerlane and Genghis Khan— The dream of subject peoples carrying out our sovereign will through fear— The dream of a universe forced to converge upon us— The dream of pride and loftiness justified by strength of arms— The dream of our arbitrary "Yea" overcoming all "Nays" whatsoever— The dream of a cold, stern, hated machine of an empire!

But there is a more enticing dream: The dream of wise freedom made contagious— The dream of gratitude rising from broken fetters— The dream of coercion laid prostrate once for all— The dream of nations in love with each other without a thought of a common hatred or danger— The dream of tyrants stripped of their tyrannies and oppressors despoiled of their prey— The dream of a warm, throbbing, one-hearted empire of brothers!

And will such a life be insipid when war has ceased forever? Be not afraid. Do lovers find life insipid? Is there no hero-stuff in lovers?

<>XVI I AM a great inventor, did you but know it. I have new weapons and explosives and devices to substitute for your obsolete tactics and tools. Mine are the battle-ships of righteousness and integrity— The armor-plates of a quiet conscience and self-respect— The impregnable conning-tower of divine manhood— The Long Toms of persuasion— The machine guns of influence and example— The dum-dum bullets of pity and remorse— The impervious cordon of sympathy— The concentration camps of brotherhood— The submarine craft of forgiveness— The torpedo-boat-destroyer of love— And behind them all the dynamite of truth! I do not patent my inventions. Take them. They are free to all the world.

<>XVII I AM a soldier too, and I have the battle of battles on my hands. You little warriors who, while fighting each other, are yet at heart agreed, and see the same false life with the same distorted eyes, I have to make war upon all of you combined, and upon the infernal War Spirit which inspires you in the bargain.

I set my courage against your courage. It is fine not to flinch under fire. It is also fine to tell an unwelcome truth to a mob and to call you the mad lot of murderers that you are. It is war between us to the knife, and I will not tell you how well I love you until you are shamed into unconditional surrender. Then I will show you my commission, and you will see that it is signed by a Commander-in-Chief who may wait long for victory, but never waits in vain.

The Conqueror

The Conqueror

HATE will not yield to hatred soon or late, However patiently we hope and wait. Love is the only conqueror of hate.

"Rebels"

"Rebels"

SHOOT down the rebels—men who dare To claim their native land! Why should the white invader spare A dusky heathen band?

You bought them from the Spanish king, You bought the men he stole; You bought perchance a ghastlier thing— The Duke of Alva's soul!

"Freedom!" you cry, and train your gun On men who would be freed, And in the name of Washington Achieve a Weyler's deed.

Boast of the benefits you spread, The faith of Christ you hold; Then seize the very soil you tread And fill your arms with gold.

Go, prostitute your mother-tongue, And give the "rebel" name To those who to their country clung, Preferring death to shame.

And call him "loyal," him who brags Of countrymen betrayed— The patriot of the money-bags, The loyalist of trade.

Oh, for the good old Roman days Of robbers bold and true, Who scorned to oil with pious phrase The deeds they dared to do—

The days before degenerate thieves Devised the coward lie Of blessings that the enslaved receives Whose rights their arms deny!

I hate the oppressor's iron rod, I hate his murderous ships, But most of all I hate, O God, The lie upon his lips!

Nay, if they still demand recruits To curse Manila Bay, Be men; refuse to act like brutes And massacre and slay.

Or if you will persist to fight With all a soldier's pride, Why, then be rebels for the right By Aguinaldo's side!

The Flag

The Flag

>> Who has hauled down the flag?

IS it the men who still uphold The principles for which it stood; Who claim that ever as of old Freedom is universal good?

Or is it those who spurn the way That Washington and Lincoln trod; Who seek to make the world obey, And long to wield the master's rod?

Who boast of freedom, but prepare Shackles and chains for distant shores, Who make the flag the emblem there Of all that Liberty abhors?

>>> These have hauled down the flag!

The Proposed Dewey Arch

The Proposed Dewey Arch

BUILD up your arch. Lay snowy stone on stone To herald to the world your glittering pride In foreign conquest. Lightly fling aside That irksome creed of Liberty outgrown. Let your new toys, your ships and guns, atone For broken faith and precedent defied. Proclaim your marble goddess far and wide Freedom no more, but Might, and Might alone!

Nay, 'tis a whited sepulcher you raise, Whereon shall this stern epitaph be read: "Here at the silent parting of the ways Fell Liberty, betrayed, beguiled, misled. Pray for her, stranger, that in happier days She may be raised immortal from the dead."

The Military Creed

The Military Creed The American Admiral in command at Samoa was asked what he thought of expansion. He is reported to have answered, "I do not think; I obey orders."

CAPTAIN, what do you think," I asked, "Of the part your soldiers play?" The captain answered, "I do not think— I do not think—I obey."

"Do you think you should shoot a patriot down And help a tyrant slay?" The captain answered, "I do not think— I do not think—I obey."

"Do you think that your conscience was meant to die And your brains to rot away?" The captain answered, "I do not think— I do not think—I obey."

"Then if this is your soldier's code," I cried, "You're a mean, unmanly crew, And with all your feathers and gilt and braid I am more of a man than you;

"For whatever my lot on earth may be, And whether I swim or sink, I can say with pride, 'I do not obey— I do not obey—I think!

Cuba Libre

Cuba Libre

WHEN we sailed from Tampa Bay (Cuba Libre!), And our ships got under weigh (Cuba Libre!), As we floated down the tide. Crowding to the steamer's side, You remember how we cried "Cuba Libre!"

When we spied the island shore (Cuba Libre!) Then we shouted loud once more "Cuba Libre!" As we sank Cervera's ships, Where the southern sea-wall dips, What again was on our lips? "Cuba Libre!"

These are foreign words, you know— "Cuba Libre!"— That we used so long ago (Cuba Libre!); And in all the time between Such a lot of things we've seen, We've forgotten what they mean— "Cuba Libre!"

Let us ask the President (Cuba Libre!), What that bit of Spanish meant— "Cuba Libre!" Ask the Senate, Root, and Hay What on earth we meant to say, When we shouted night and day, "Cuba Libre!"

But alas! they will not speak (Cuba Libre!), For their memories are weak (Cuba Libre!), If you have a lexicon, Borrowed from a Spanish don, Send it down to Washington (Cuba Libre!).

The Pirate Flag

The Pirate Flag

I HAD an ugly dream last night, And I was far away. A-sailing on a man-of-war Far up Manila Bay. And as I cast a glance aloft It made me stand aghast To see a jet-black pirate flag A-flying from the mast.

And then around me fore and aft The guns began to roar, And flames sprang up and soon enwrapped A village on the shore. I took my glass and clearly saw Women and children run, While soldiers in the palms behind Were potting them for fun.

Far to the left some dusky men Fought bravely on a knoll, But, overcome at last, they raised A white rag on a pole; Yet still the soldiers shot them down And I could almost hear Their laughter as they seemed to shout, "No prisoners wanted here!"

Then when the last defender fell The men rushed in with glee, And from each house they came with loads Of plunder sad to see; And soon we sent a boat ashore— Blue-jackets and marines— To get our share of loot and swag, And spoil the Philippines.

I turned and asked a sailor lad— For now they stood at ease— What pirates we might chance to be Who plagued these summer seas.

"Oh, we're no pirates," he replied, "Don't ask me that again; This is a ship of Uncle Sam And we are Dewey's men."

"But how is that?" I said once more; "Where are our stripes and stars? And does that inky flag up there Belong to honest tars?" "To tell the truth, it's rather queer," Replied embarrassed Jack, "But something in the climate here Has turned Old Glory black.

"We wash her in the briny sea And in the streams on land: We scrub her with the best of soap, And rub her in the sand; And all our Chinese laundrymen And all our laundry maids Have tackled her, but still she looks Black as the ace of spades.

"There's something in the climate here That changes things around, And what the reason of it is We none of us have found. And so we don't know what to say, Or even what to think, When people ask us what has made Old Glory black as ink."

Just then the boat came back from shore Well laden down with spoil— With goods that told of many years Of Filipino toil; And Jack ran off to get his part, Nor came he ever back, And I awoke and never learned What turned Old Glory black.

The Real "White Man's Burden"

The Real "White Man's Burden"

With apologies to Rudyard Kipling

TAKE up the White Man's burden. Send forth your sturdy kin. And load them down with Bibles And cannon-balls and gin. Throw in a few diseases To spread the tropic climes, For there the healthy niggers Are quite behind the times.

And don't forget the factories. On those benighted shores They have no cheerful iron mills, Nor eke department stores. They never work twelve hours a day, And live in strange content, Altho they never have to pay A single sou of rent.

Take up the White Man's burden, And teach the Philippines What interest and taxes are And what a mortgage means. Give them electrocution chairs, And prisons, too, galore, And if they seem inclined to kick, Then spill their heathen gore.

They need our labor question, too, And politics and fraud— We've made a pretty mess at home, Let's make a mess abroad. And let us ever humbly pray The Lord of Hosts may deign To stir our feeble memories Lest we forget—the Maine.

Take up the White's Man's burden. To you who thus succeed In civilizing savage hordes, They owe a debt, indeed; Concessions, pensions, salaries, And privilege and right— With outstretched hands you raised to bless Grab everything in sight.

Take up the White Man's burden. And if you write in verse, Flatter your nation's vices And strive to make them worse.

Then learn that if with pious words You ornament each phrase, In a world of canting hypocrites This kind of business pays.

The Bugler in the Rear

The Bugler in the Rear

To Rudyard Kipling

STRONG bugler, whose deep-chested strain Has cheered the march of man From Simla to the coast of Maine, From Cork to Kordofan, Oh, tell me, while your rhythmic flow Still fascinates my ear, Why is it that you choose to blow Your bugle in the rear?

For clarion notes like yours should sound The order to advance— The prophet's thunder-words profound That voice the prophet's glance— The prophet's glance that first beholds The new-born day appear; You spy not what the future holds, A-bugling in the rear.

Your bugle-note is that which calls King Ramses to the fight, Sculptured on Karnak's crumbling walls At twenty times his height.

Again you blow his ancient horn, That pygmy tribes may fear, You're harking back to times outworn, A-bugling in the rear.

Like you, the narrow Jew looked down Upon the Gentile bands; Like you, proud Romans used to frown On broad, "barbarian" lands; And Attila and Genghis Khan Knew well your bugle bold; For pagan, Jew, and Mussulman Have heard its blare of old.

And so the Norman, when he came Across the narrow wave, And made the Anglo-Saxon name The synonym for "slave"; And so the Corsican who hurled His bolts like hell unpent, And won the hatred of the world To soothe his banishment:

These, all of these, from times remote, In every land and clime, Have heard your ancient bugle-note Of war and waste sublime; And, ere man's footstep ever fell On mountain, plain, or shore, It echoed in the tiger's yell And in the lion's roar.

Know, then, that man shall not return And seek the brutish past— The jungle he has left to learn To scale the heights at last. And this shall ever be the sign To mark the leader true: The poet is the man divine Who tells us something new—

The man who tells us something new, And points the road ahead; Whose tent is with the forward few, And not among the dead. Then come, strong bugler of the rear, And lead us in the van, And blow this blast, as pioneer, "The Brotherhood of Man!"

Russia and America, August

GOD bless the Tsar! Little did I believe yesterday that that prayer would ever leave my lips. The ancient riddle is answered. Out of the eater cometh forth meat, and out of the strong cometh forth sweetness.

Russia and America, August

Russia and America, August

GOD bless the Tsar! Little did I believe yesterday that that prayer would ever leave my lips. The ancient riddle is answered. Out of the eater cometh forth meat, and out of the strong cometh forth sweetness.

From the heart of the Northern Bear at last we may gather honey. The armed hordes of Muscovy and Tartary cry "Peace!"

O Daughter of the West, thine hour of shame is upon thee! When thou didst hear from afar the word divine, thou wast busied in things of war. Thy thoughts were of loftier battlements, of swelling battalions, of deadlier flotillas, of greater preparation for slaughter. Thou hast sown the wind. Wilt thou escape the whirlwind? Thou hast planted dragon's teeth. Wilt thou save thyself from the harvest of armed men, ready to impoverish and lord it over thee? Daughter of Liberty, fallen tho thou be, give ear to the voice of Tyranny's transfigured daughter. God bless Russia and the Tsar!

The Peace Congress

The Peace Congress

AROUND a long green table sat Ambassadors of peace, To ponder for the Christian world How war and strife might cease;

And captains of the sea were there And captains of the land, And with the tassels of their swords Played many an idle hand.

And some who had the morning's news Were reading there with zest Of battles in the farthest East And battles in the West; While at the door two sentries stood. With muskets at their side And bayonets fixed, to show that peace Depends on war and pride.

The president then rang his bell, And up a bishop rose, And prayed for all the kings and queens In most poetic prose. His lips that every week had asked For victory in war, Now prayed that in our time sweet Peace Might come for evermore.

Then suddenly the hall grew bright, The roof was rent in two, And down from heaven an angel came To their astonished view: The envoys looked aghast, the priest Muttered a faint "Amen!" A stern voice answered, "I am Peace; What would you have, ye men?

"Why is it that you call me here From God's unsullied air— Here, where the smell of blood corrupts The spirit of your prayer? Here where you dare to name mу паmе Holding a blood-stained sword?" (The troubled counsellors now hid Their hilts beneath the board.)