PUT UP THE SWORD by James Jeffrey Roche

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 4, 1900

PUT UP THE SWORD.

By James Jeffrey Roche

[James Jeffrey Roche, in "The Century."]

I HAVE sung of the soldier's glory As I never shall sing again; I have gazed on the shambles gory, I 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 we murder the useless mother For the "unborn astrakhan."

But a season of rest comes never For the rarest sport of all; Will His patience endure forever Who noteth a sparrow's fall?

When the volleys of hell are sweeping The sea and the battle plain, Do you think that our God is sleeping And never to wake again?

When hunger and ravenous fever Are slaying the wasted frame Shall we worship the red 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?"