War

by John Spateman

KNOW, ye dire Pests, and Butchers of Mankind,
The greatest Conquest will be that of Death,
The glorious Crown of the MESSIAH'S Acts;
And this, by shedding his own precious Blood,
Without a Drop of other, will be won.
There, there, will be a Victor stain'd all o'er
With truly glorious Blood, the Blood of Love,
Of Godlike Love; not hellish Rage and Hate:
There will ye see a Hero, that all Praise,
Glory, and Altars, will indeed deserve,
For Millions sav'd, and not destroy'd: His Praise
From public Good, not public Hurt, will spring:
Who ne'er will take away a single Life,
Not one make wretched; but to Millions such,
To Myriads of such Millions, by his own
Sore Suff'rings, and free Off'ring of his Life,
Forfeited Happiness and Life restore.
You, Ammon, wept, that you had but one World
To conquer: He had wish'd more Worlds to save.

HE, comes, long needed by a wicked World:
A nobler Flight of Ages now begins:
The promis'd Virgin with the Prince of Peace
Is pregnant: This will be the Golden Age.
O come, be born, sweet Babe, the World's Desire,
In Hour auspicious, blest! End, end your Wars,
Ye Nations, let no Clarions Sound disturb
The slumb'ring Infant's Visions: Hush, be still;
And know, that He is GOD, who maketh WARS
To cease at Will; to Ploughshares turn your Swords;
Forgotten, let your needless Armour rust;
And break your useless Spears to feed the Fire.
Now the chang'd Lion with the Ox shall feed
At the same Crib; the little Child shall stroak
The Tiger; Scorpions, Cockatrices, Asps,
Be harmless Things; henceforth let nothing hurt,
But all be Peace, and Innocence, and Love!
Sweet Age! Yet such the World had always been,
If sinless; such should be, now He is come.

At least, we might have hop'd for such a State
In His, who should be like their peaceful Lord,
A People all of Innocence and Love.
But, ah! Mankind continue still the same,
And we must wait for this, till He returns
To raise us to immortal Life, and Bliss
More perfect than our first; Then this shall be,
And more: At present Sin's Corruption works,
So strong in all, but in his chosen Few,
That, oh! instead of better, they are worse;
They war like Heathens, and like Heathens live;
Yet Christians they will be, in spite of Heav'n,
Instead of Hell; for this such Saints approves,
While that abhors, and utterly disowns:
Far diff'rent should have been the Wars of these;
Their Sword, the Spirit; perfect Righteousness,
Their Panoply divine; and Faith, their Shield;
The Cross, their Banner, Universal Love
Their Motive to subdue the World to Christ
And Happiness; their Aim, to bless their Foes
With Life eternal, not deprive of this.
But these, too, lust; these, likewise, carnal Arms
Assume, and all the same dire Scenes ensue.

Lo, Spring, fair Maid, in fragrant Blossoms clad,
And deck'd with Flow'rs, preserving some Remains
Of our First State in Paradise, invites
T'enjoy its Sweets, forgetful of our Cares
And Misery! For Mischief rather made
And Horror, than Enjoyment, forth they march,
In Arms, as if their War was with the Spring,
Yea, Heav'n itself, and its most gracious Gifts,
No less than with their Brethren; all they mar,
Relentless, till the Land a Defart seems,
That, crown'd with Plenty, late like Eden smil'd.

Subject to Mis'ry, in Ten thousand Shapes,
Thro' GOD'S just Ire and Doom, we drop apace,
Like blasted Fruit; and thence should pity, help,
And comfort each his Neighbour, and unite
To pacify, by Pray'r, the Wrath Divine:
But they, possess'd by Furies, multiply
Our Woes innumerable; and, of their own
Contrivance, add as many more, and worse.

Thanks to thee, hoary Father, Winter, Thanks
To thy bleak Winds, and Rains, and Frosts severe,
That check awhile their Thirst of human Blood,
And force them Warmth to seek beneath the Roofs
Of Towns and Cities; yet not always thou
Vacation gain'st us, oft they will endure
Thy worst, and rather die, than not destroy;
And never once think to whom! O eloquent Paul,
Or ye styl'd Thunder's Sons, to Earth descend,
And thus, with elevated Voice and Hands,
And Zeal inflam'd, attempt to stop their Rage:

"Stay, stay your Hands, ye Madmen, know ye not,
"That Blood is Christ's, and from his Members flows?
"He that wounds them, wounds Him; will ye, too, kill
"Your Lord, and use Him like the murd'rous Jews?
"Throw down those horrid Arms, and, chang'd, embrace
"His Brother each; and, with repentant Tears,
"Mutual Forgiveness ask, or name not Christ."

Not Paul himself could stop them, no, nor Christ,
Unless, array'd in Glory, he should come
To judge them instantly:——And may he not?
What if he should? Silence the thund'rous Guns
And Cannons, and suspend the horrid fray?
How well prepar'd for Hell, how ill for Heav'n,
Would they before his dread Tribunal stand?

Men, Christians, the same Language, Customs, Laws,
And Country, Kindred, Blood, Affinity,
What farther Ties of Union can be fram'd?
Yet will their dire Propensity to War
Break thro' all these, and feel no more Restraint,
Than Hornets from the Spider's feeble Web.
The more strong Bands oblige them to be Friends,
Worse Foes they are, encounter with more Rage,
And with their Teeth each other's Flesh could tear.
What shall we do to keep Mankind from War,
When, ev'n Religion, too, has prov'd its Cause?
——-Religion makes us war! The Turkish, sure?
Nay, but the Christian—Where, or how does that
Encourage WAR, or bid us fight for Heav'n?
Did Jesus save us by the Sword? Did He,
Or his, resist the Pow'rs that were? Do more
Than suffer patiently, and conquer so?
Pull off the Mask, Religion's vain Pretence;
WAR, WAR, is thy Religion; Gold, thy God;
Thy Sacrifices, Hecatombs of Men!
At least, of Jesu's Spirit talking much,
You know not what it is, but are impell'd
By carnal Passions, all inflam'd by Fiends.

A Sword, a Sword is born, a bloody Sword!
Strange Birth!——Or thus, I ween, his Mother dream'd,
Ere Mahomet was born, or such a Sword,
Stamp'd on his Breast, with liveliest Signature,
Did, or else should have mark'd the nascent Babe;
A Sword, indeed, to punish Earth, chastize
Christians, a Scandal to the Name, that lov'd!
The Sword, and War, and Bloodshed, Sons of Mars,
Not GOD'S; vile Cain's Disciples, and not Christ's.
What Havock will it make of human Race!
With what Effusion dire of Christian Blood
Pollute the Earth, and half the World o'er-run!
All this a despicable Slave will cause!
Dread smallest Things: The smallest in the Hand
Of GOD, and his o'er-ruling Providence,
Is much too strong for greatest human Strength!