The study of history is salutary to the young mind. To know what has been done in all countries, since man was placed upon the earth, is a laudable curiosity, and an ennobling pursuit. To form a correct opinion of the characters thus presented us, affords useful exercise to the judgment. Those who have delighted only to shed blood, and to build their fame on the misery of mankind, should not be admired though the world may pronounce them heroes.
In reading of the truly wise and good, we should strive to imbibe their spirit and tread in their steps. The highest end of knowledge is to advance in goodness and piety, and to make the heart and life more acceptable to God.
The Ploughing of the Sword.
"They shall beat their swords into Plough-shares." Isaiah, II, 4.
The ploughing of the Sword
Breaks up the greensward deep,
And stirs the old foundations
Where the baleful passions sleep;
The quiet beauty of the vales
It rudely rends away,
And turns the roots of the riven flowers
To the scorching eye of day.
And then, they madly sow
The seeds of bitter strife,
Ambition, wrath, revenge,
And stern contempt of life.
They wildly scatter o'er the land
Dissension, pain, and care,
And fright away the birds of peace
That fain would carol there.
Now call the reapers forth,
With the thundering cannon's roar,
Hark! to the rush of an armed host
Like the surge on a rocky shore,
With tramp and clang, the warrior's heel
Doth the red wine-press tread,
And heavily roll the loaded wains
With their burdens of the dead.
They reap with murderous sickle,
Mid the shrill trumpet's cry,
Till the mightiest and the lowest,
In equal ruin lie.
Till the screaming vulture whets his beak,
Where the blood-pools blot the green,
And the gaunt hyena prowls at night
His dire repast to glean.
They store their carnage spoil
In History's garner wide,
A reeking overflowing crop
Of crime, and woe, and pride,
The widow's pang, the orphan's tear
The exulting tyrant's might,
And the cry of souls for ever lost,
As they take their fearful flight.
Oh! mourning Mother Earth,
Lift up thy heart and pray
That the ploughing of the sword
Be for ever done away,
And thine own meekly-cultur'd fields
With nodding corn be dress'd,
To feed thy children, ere they take
Their slumber in thy breast.
And thou, terrific Sword!
Whose ministry accurs'd
Doth waste the span of mortal life
That was so brief at first,
God speed the day when promis'd Peace
Shall reign from shore to shore,
And thou, into a plough-share beat,
Convulse the world no more.