No.
III.
Let
the sword be sheathed! let the sword be sheathed!
The land hath been deluged in blood too long;
Let the harp with the myrtle of peace be wreathed,
And the reaper’s succeed to the battle-song.
The
youth who went forth in the pride of his strength,
Returning a warrior old and grim
To the home of his early years at length,
Why should not peace twine a garland for him?
And
for those who sleep on the battle-fields,
For whom the turmoil of life is o’er,
Let flowers be entwined round their broken shields,
And their praises resound from shore to shore.
Bid
the mother and wife, who through years of unrest,
Hath waited and watched for her loved one’s return,
Arise and put off her mourning vest,
As she clasps to her bosom her husband and son.
Bid
the maidens of Israel lay aside sadness,
And their clustering tresses with flowers adorn,
Bid them go forth, to hail in their beauty and gladness,
Their sires’, their brothers’, their lovers’ return.
Let
the sword be sheathed! let the sword be sheathed!
The land hath been deluged in blood too long;
Let the harp with the myrtle of peace be wreathed,
And the reaper’s succeed to the battle-song.
Maiden,
fair maiden, from even till morn,
Thou watchest in vain for thy lover’s return,
His breastplate is riven, his shield rent in twain,
His good sword is broken, he sleeps with the slain.
Maiden,
the scarf that at parting you gave
To the lord of your bosom, is red on his grave;
Yet he shamed not the gift, for he died with the band
Of patriots defending thy loved native land.
From
his pale lips the war-cry of Israel rung,
And, dying, thy name lingered yet on his tongue;
He breathed a last prayer for his long-betrothed bride,
Hear, oh Israel! he shouted, and gloriously died.
Maiden,
when spring, like a bountiful queen,
Hath clad the fair earth in a mantle of green,
The young men and maidens of Judah shall strew
Fair flowers o’er the grave of thy patriot true.
