Still the guns boom and boom
Over the minds of men,
Drowning the wills of men,
The thinking powers of men.
So they boomed in the days
When the Fallieri fought,
When Colleoni took
The desperate cities’ pay,
When the Hohenstauffen clutched
Italy’s throbbing heart,
When wily Metternich
Closed up the mouths of men
And universities.
The black glutted guns
Boomed for Garibaldi,
And for Gambetta’s cause.
For that Napoleon,
Who dickered in big wars—
With the great solemn head
And little pompous frame
And cold and martial eye
And strange abnormal dream.
The whole world loathed the sound
Of the sea of Mittrailleuse,
The roaring cannon-waves.
Yet on the swimmers came,
And dove through the frightful Surf,
Until whole millions lay
Like dead fish in that sea,
That broke in barren waves
Upon posterity.
So shall the millions die
In this chartless blasting Sea,
Till someone finds its Source—
The Power in Berlin,
And binds his pilfering hands,
And heals his crazy brain,
And ends his Mania....
Till someone leads the world
In a new solemn Vow
And endless chanting hymn,
A vow such as this—
A vow that every race
And every blood shall sign
And seal with the memory
Of children who have died,
Of torment and of fright;
Of Women who have died,
Bearing the children of rape;
Of Men who gave their lives,
Fighting the filthy wars,
Of commerce and of greed;
Under so high a word,
So clean and pure a word
As Patriotic faith!
A vow that shall be sealed
By the whole world, rising
Requiring this one Thing,
Saying—“And with Him go
The marshalled powers of killing.
With him go out the Guns,
With us come in the Wings;
Bearing us on our Thought
The kingdoms of our Mind
And wisdoms of our Soul!”
As the American finished, the Woodcarver looks shrewdly up from his work:
Is that how America talks?
How is it in your land?
Your people bright and gay
And full of sprightliness.
The keenness of their face,
The quickness of their mind,
And their slowness to all passion....
Their big ambitions, and
Their proud impulsiveness....
America, fine and free,
What does she think of guns
And working out a thought
With a massed artillery?
The American, lighting another cigarette, ruminatingly regards it, and the old Italian smiling shakes his head and poises a half shaped figure of Christ in his hand, saying:
Nay, Nay! She does not know
Your land of tapering towers
And groves of shining lights,
The women light of foot,
Men white-haired but young-faced.
Your land knows not the guns,
Your land sends ships and men
Fuel, clothes, machines
And gold, and curing
Of medicines, and stuffs;
Every device of strength,
All scientific ways,
To heal and mend and save.
Yet your land does not know
The devastating hell
Of war, and war for War—
The hells that took the bloom
From off the women’s faces,
And blasted children’s minds
In every other land.
Your country does not know
Pray heaven she shall not know!
With a groan, the Woodcarver once more takes up the Christ, he runs his skilful sensitive fingers and supple wrist along the thin side of the young crucified figure. The American lost in thought staring at him. At last the latter as if speaking to himself thinks aloud, says softly:
“Our land sends ships and men,
The youth of the country’s loins,
The precious toll of her towns,
The noble gift of her hills;
Men who were born to peace,
Who curse vile trickeries
Of hateful modern war;
Who trusted with smiling face,
A certain honesty,
And could not fathom hate,
And could not relish greed.
Ship after ship has sailed
To carry them to their graves,
The smiling sacrifice
Of this despairing age.”
The Woodcarver looks up, in a kind of awe, as the American relates: