War

by John Spateman

POEM.

Ah! my blest Teacher, spare; my Strength is spent,
And was at best a Child's. Some younger Voice
Excite; whose Song un-disappointed Hope
May help to heighten—Must I not refuse?
Dictate.—Howe'er discourag'd, lo! I speak
Once more, and trust in thy Almighty Pow'r.

WAR, Man-destroying, City-wasting WAR,
Fell, horrid, hellish, execrable WAR,
In rough, discordant Notes I mean to curse,
Not sing. Can Harmony, and tuneful Sounds,
Agree with WAR'S mad Deeds, and hideous Din?
Willing, to others I resign the Praise
Of pleasing, while their Art its Horrors paints.
I seek to move Abhorrence of its Cause,
And Fears, while Indignation forms the Verse,
That should be writ with human Gore, not Ink;
Or with a Dagger's Point on human Bones,
In Mars's Temples, Demon-God of War,
Pil'd, as in Charnels. O! could I recount
The Numbers that his Flesh-devouring Sword
And Weapons have destroy'd, my Breath and Tongue
Would fail me to pronounce it: Could I show
Their Bones, on Piles assembled, they would make
Huge Mountains, scarce inferior to the Alps.

Curst be the Man, that first his Hands imbrew'd
In Blood fraternal! That dire Wretch was Cain:
He first, so early, shew'd, the human Soul
Could bear to hurt its Like, its second Self;
Which had not he, or some such Wretch, essay'd,
Could scarce have entred human Thought. But Sin
Was the first Mover; Eve's and Adam's Sin
Slew Abel, All, whose Blood has since been shed.
From that dire bitter Root, sprang Murder, WAR,
And all our Evils: All had else been Peace,
And Love, and Joy, and everlasting Health:
O Fall from Love to WAR, from Heav'n to Hell!

Curst too be he, some genuine Son of Cain,
Whose mischievous Invention hammer'd first
Rude Swords and Weapons! Taught by whom, the rest
Apt Scholars all at Evil, dull for Good,
Study'd, and soon improv'd the hellish Art
Of hurting and destroying human Race!
While he most Praise obtain'd, who most advanc'd
The Mischief, and his Brethren most could hurt.
Offensive and defensive Arms were now
Their chief Delight, and all their Thoughts engross'd:
WAR'S murd'rous Implements increas'd apace:
Now the bent Bow was practis'd to dispatch
Wounds unforeseen, and sudden Hurt from far:
Now Death and Enmity see speedy Work
Were furnish'd: Now in Companies unite
The Sons of Belial, bent to spoil or slay
Their mild and peaceful Brethren; Men from Men
Appear'd not safe, unless completely cloath'd
In Steel, from Head to Foot: Amazing Change!
From naked Majesty to Skins of Beasts,
And now to Steel; yet horrider Disguise,
And monstrous! How could Adam now have known
His Sons?——But Steel itself too feeble prov'd
To fence from human Cruelty, and Thirst
Of Blood fraternal: And yet what more firm?
What could they use, when Steel appear'd too weak?

Now Troop encounter'd Troop, and Hundreds fell;
These, then, were counted many to be slain
At once, and made a lamentable Tale!
Now mournful Families were all in Tears;
For her Espous'd the Virgin wept; her Son
The Mother wail'd; the Husband's Loss bemoan'd
His Widow, and her Children, destitute
And helpless, and without Resource but Heav'n!

What thought the while their primitive Sire, what said,
When he beheld his Offspring warring thus
In hostile Crouds, engag'd with mutual Rage
And Rancour in outrageous Deeds, and bent
To die, or to destroy, as if contriv'd,
By Nature's Will, of worst Antipathy?
How must his Love and Grief have interpos'd
Between their cruel Swords, and wildly cry'd,
'Sons!—Children!—why so furious, why this Rage
'And Thirst of Blood.' What Madness urges you,
'Misrepresenting Objects? They are all
'Your Brethren, your own Flesh, the Sons of Eve
'And Adam; them, and not wild Beasts, ye hurt;
'Them, and sweet Charity, that on all Sides bleeds.
'I thought our Crime had introduc'd enough
'Of Death, and Evil; and ye, mad, contend
'Which shall increase it most, and do Death's Work
'Faster and better than himself, as hir'd
'By Satan, who beholds with great Delight
'Your Deeds, rejoic'd that Man is now become
'To Man, as fierce and sworn a Foe, as he.
'O, worse than me! unthinking I did Hurt
'To you: Ye study Malice, and can act
'Murder propense, and glory in the Deed!'

Little, may we suppose, did they regard
Their Sire's Reproof, who GOD'S Commands despis'd,
And Nature's Voice, which manifestly spake
Them Brethren, all from the fame Stock deriv'd;
All of one Blood and Flesh, so similar,
That each in each beheld another Self;
With plain Design, that nat'ral Sympathy,
And ev'ry thing, should draw them to unite;
Their very Form, like that of Doves, contriv'd
For Love and Friendship, not for Deeds of Hate;
And fitter to embrace, than hurt or kill;
Most other Creatures ready arm'd for Fight
With Horns, Hoofs, Claws, or Teeth, or Stings, or Beaks:
But Man was naked and defenceless left,
A Picture sweet of perfect Innocence,
By the rever'd Similitude of GOD
Impress'd, and native Majesty secur'd.

All Grounds of Peace, all Reason, thrown behind,
Dire Love of WAR, like a Contagion, spread:
Those, that, so lately were but spoiling Bands,
Now to such num'rous Hosts increas'd, that Men
In social Multitudes, and Cities large,
Seem'd not secure, unless inclos'd in Walls.
Prodigious Heaps of pond'rous Stones were dug,
And brought with Labour vast: All Hands unite
For common Safety; All, industrious, urge
The necessary Work, till Walls were rais'd
Of Height and Thickness vast, esteem'd of Strength
Impregnable, insup'rable by Man;
Their heavy Gates of solid Brass, so firm,
As not to yield to less than Pow'r divine.
They now hop'd fearless to enjoy their own,
And sleep secure from Spoilers Swords: Vain, Hope!
The Murd'rers, to a mighty Host increas'd,
Approach, and with close Siege their Walls begirt.
*As an half-famish'd Troop of Midnight Wolves,
Pinch'd by bleak Winds, and chilling Rains, surround
A Flock of Sheep, safe-fenc'd; secure the Lambs
Bleat by their Mothers; they, excluded, rage,
To be debarr'd: Keen Hunger, and their Jaws
Long dry from Blood, to utmost Fury urge:
So these, prohibited Access, and foil'd,
Vexation, Rage, and foaming Spite consume;
Their cruel Ire could eat them all alive.
With resolute Patience long they wait, and hope
By Famine dire to conquer, whom their Swords
And Spears can't reach: Nor idle they the while;
But batt'ring Engines vast, and moving Tow'rs,
Their dev'lish Ingenuity, invents.
Mean time, streight Penury, and dismal Pine,
Hard presses the Besieg'd; forlorn Dismay
Sits on their meagre Faces; Bread is now
Than Gold more precious; Meat obscene, a Feast:
Yet they endure. So dear is Liberty
To gen'rous Souls, than Life itself more priz'd!

* Virgil.