War

by John Spateman

Trillions cut off, near half the peopled Globe
A Defart made by thy unblunted Edge,
Sword of the Lord, now to thy Sheath return
At length, and rest: How can it rest, injoin'd,
To flay? How can it rest, when Christians war?
When those, who should be Sons of Peace and Love
Unanimous, are to each other, Turks?

Nor, oh, do Christians only war as much
As Turks or Heathens, but their Wars are worse.
Such, and so many Instruments of Death
Invented; one might now have hop'd, that Man,
Howe'er blood-thirsty, would have been content,
And not have fought for new ones; or, at least,
That Christ's Disciples, far from making new,
Would have destroy'd the old ones; when a Monk,
(Who would have thought a Monk would have supply'd
Man's Cruelty with direr Arms?) a Monk,
Who should have been at Pray'rs, beseeching Peace
For wretched Mortals, he experienc'd first
The hellish Fury of that thund'rous Grain,
That since, with greater Ease, and more Dispatch,
Has done WAR'S bloody Work; Invention dire!
And not, I think, to be outdone on Earth,
If ev'n in Hell! New Scenes of War arise,
With doubled Horrors; now its Rage appear'd
Dreadful indeed, with Thunders arm'd, and Bolts,
That mimic those of Heav'n, all-patient Heav'n!
Which direct, matchless Thunderbolts would else
Conglomerate, and drive them down to Hell,
To fight and thunder; there the fittest Place!

O could thy Eyes behold a modern Siege,
Or I describe the Horrors of the Place,
An antique Siege would seem a harmless Thing!
A hundred Cannons from their hellish Mouths
Belch Fire and Smoke, and level Thunderbolts
Against the shatter'd Walls, that at each Stroke
Tremble; a hundred pregnant Bombs, the while
Their cursed Globes, with Death and Mischief fraught,
Discharge, that drop like Comets from the Sky;
Too little all, without the Aid of Hell
In Mines beneath, that, like an Earthquake, Walls,
And Castles, from their strong Foundations throw;
Hell from beneath, Heav'n threatens from above!

Go, bomb Vesuvius, with thy dev'lish Tubes!
And let its Fires, to tenfold Rage inflam'd,
Whirl red-hot, rocky Fragments on thy Head,
And Hell encounter Hell; nor thus destroy
Women, and harmless Babes, as well as Men,
Ev'n those thy Brethren, and the Flock of Christ!

Sands, Tempests, Rocks, and Waves, are Dangers few:
'Tis a small Thing to fail within a Foot
Of Death, and scorn the Monsters of the Main,
That open their prodigious Jaws, like Hell,
And soon expect them all; but Man is now
The direst Monster of the watry World,
And makes worse Perils in it than he finds.
Lo, from their floating Arks, to save Mankind
Invented, not destroy, in Fire and Smoke
Invelop'd, volly'd Thunders they discharge,
And on each others Heads hail Wounds and Death.
What worse has the just Ire of Heav'n denounc'd
Than Fire and Brimstone, Storm, and thund'rous Bolts?
All this, as if it were in Scorn, they forge
By Art; and, mad, anticipate their Hell;
Complete, if the curst Grain of one takes Fire;
With dire Displosion, all involv'd in Flame,
Aloft they mount, with broken Planks commixt;
Thence, scorch'd, like Pha'tons, fall into the Sea.
The other, bor'd, perhaps, with many a Wound,
Founders, and sinks apace into the Deep,
While, o'er their Heads, the Billows booming close.

Thus Christians war, who should not war at all,
But, as they are one Body, have one Soul,
One Spirit, Breath of mutual Love and Peace.
If Christians thus encounter, what the Wars
Of Fiends? Or, more to shame us, have they none!
Should peaceful Flocks of Sheep, with rabid Jaws,
Assault and tear each other, could it be
More monstrous, than for Christians thus to fight?
Jesus, Exemplar of consummate Love
And Meekness; Jesus, God and King of Peace!
Such Strangers to thy Spirit thou wilt hold
Strangers to thee, I fear; but where their Sin
To some ambitious Monarch must be charg'd,
Who, as Aggressor, must account for all
This Spilth of human, if not Christian Blood.

If Christians make no better Use than this
Of their Religion, Sciences, and Arts,
What Angel will convey a Son of Peace
To some Philippine fruitful Isle, unknown
To the Sea-roving Tribe, where, all at Peace,
In poor, half-naked Innocence and Love,
The Heav'n-taught, uncorrupted Nations dwell,
Dove-like; and think that Man can't murder Man?
We are the Savages. The Christians, These,
In Love, at least; well-fitted to receive
The Gospel's Seed divine, and bring forth Fruit.
But, ah! what Isle so secret to escape
These Christian Murderers, with eager Scent,
Hunting for Gold all o'er the spacious Main?
When once they find us out, our peaceful Minds
Will nought avail us; Spoiling, Chains, or Death,
Must be our Lot; while they, profane, presume
To name the GOD of Love, and talk of CHRIST.

Tho' in these sinful Regions Christian Love
And Peace secure are not to be attain'd;
Jesus, great Judge of Spirits, when thy Will
Calls mine before thee, and thy righteous Voice
Appoints my Portion, O in Mercy grant,
Grant me a Mansion, where will be no War:
Assign my Soul to some sweet Land of Peace,
There, gracious, place in Station low, but blest,
Thy Poet, Peace's Advocate, though mean
In both Respects, and all: But thou the Will
Regarded; lov'st the Heart before the Head.

These God, Man, Hell-contemning Warriors, sure,
All to one Place will be consign'd and doom'd,
There with each other to wage endless Wars,
To hack, and thrust, and wound, and vainly strive
To kill their Foes immortal, or, by Death,
End their own Misery; with Earth's dire Grain,
Or worse, to thunder there, and mine, and bomb:
Or are they rather doom'd to live in Peace,
And mutual Love, for ever? Sad Estate!
That, that may be the greater Hell to them!

But why despair I yet of Peace on Earth?
Great Shepherds of the Nations, O be wise!
At length, awake to Reason's Use, from Dreams
Of vain Ambition: Let the hideous Din
Of your own Cannons, and disploding Bombs,
Wake you to due Reflection: Ask yourselves,
Unprejudic'd, if neither Heav'n nor Earth
Can you accuse of these unchristian Wars.
O give us Peace; compassionate the World:
Compare th' Advantages and Sweets of Peace
With all the Woes and Miseries of War:
And can ye not desire and love the one,?
The other not abhor as much as Death
What? What your Gain? Behold, your People, peel'd,
Impoverish'd, curse your Wars, and wicked Schemes!
Be truly Sires, and your dear People view
With all the Yearnings of paternal Love:
How glorious is a wife and peaceful King?
To make such Numbers blest, is Praise indeed.
View Antonine, a Pagan Prince: What Wars,
What Victories will render you so great?
Which of you will renew that glorious Scheme,
A Heathen Prince could frame, to put an End
To human Wars; and Peace, sweet Peace, confirm
Between the Nations, while the Work endures;
He, he shall be Fame's Minion in the Years
To come, and Conqu'rors be admir'd no more.