War Drums (Scharkie)/At the Cannon's Mouth

by Louis Edward Scharkie

AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH.

Do ye hear it mothers? Do ye hear the thunders from the water?
Do ye hear the blind worlds rocking to the earthquake shocks of war?
Do ye see the war-hounds leaping to the running fields of slaughter,
And a reeking hell burst upwards through the cannon's central roar?

Do ye deem it mothers, that the peace ye hold so dearly
Is a truce for blinding Senates to strike deeper and presume,
Till the gamest king of Europe shall clash on their cunning clearly,
And the world go off in thunder to a whirring roar of doom?

Peace! why mothers, 'tis an irony on common sense for claiming
Such a shameful bastardy of common principles of trust.
Truth the liar is a true man in the modern sense of naming,
And the sneaking midnight filcher is as honest as the just.

Peace! why mothers, are we madmen, or the tools of jealous passion,
To bear state to customs moulded to a greedy Senate's nod?
Do we hold what truth and peace are? Do we know them but by fashion
Of believing that the world's old verdict is Creation's God?

Bah! we men are fools for thinking—simple tools of infant prattle.
How we cherish frothy vengeance to redeem a simple deed?
Better, far, burst up the bubble with a million roars of battle—
Flaring hecatombs to sicken the grim gluttony of greed.

Sooth! 'tis coming—bitter war by hill and valley; deathly thunder
Roaring wild from peak to sea-line as a universal knell.
War by land, and war by water; war sprung up with hellish wonder,
Bursting barrier and bastion with artillery of hell

Death and doom, and blood and battle;—carnival of fiends infernal;—
Corpses, mothers, thick as autumn leaves dropt by the blustering South.
Price, we madmen pay for being jealous; sooth we soon will learn well
Of a deeper, sadder wisdom gathered at the cannon's mouth

Weep, ye mothers! weep but blame not. 'Tis the blasting curse of ages
Bursting like a breaker to be silent evermore and cease.
Shout, ye mothers! shout, but praise not; doom of war hath woeful wages;
But the thunder-peal of cannon is the harbinger of peace.

Roar, ye mighty kings of battle! roar unto the winds of heaven;
Whirl your war cries outward through the daylight and the gloom;
Flash your blades into the sunrise; flash them to the gates of even;
Flash them in a dripping storm of blood towards the day of doom.

Wake the world to scenes of carnage; wake it to annihilation.
Ye be leaders to a brighter morning though ye wade through blood.
Truth will bud where ye would slay it; peace grow white through red oblation,
Flashing towards a calmer daybreak, as a tideless, crystal flood.