THE CALL TO THE COLORS by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON

I

ON the blood-watered soil of the Balkans
A Bulgar lies clenched with a Turk,
And the task of the cannon and rifle
Will be finished by fist and by dirk.
And the last word of hate -- ere the rattle
Of death bids their enmity cease --
Does it call to the banners of battle
Or call to the colors of Peace?

II

In the purlieus of sin-befogged cities,
Slow food of neglect and of pest,
How many a mother lies dying,
With to-morrow's pale scourge at her breast!
And the bread-cry that serves for the prattle
Of orphans -- (oh, when shall it cease?) --
Does it call to the banners of battle,
Or call to the colors of Peace?

III

I hear from my window this morning
The shout of a soldiering boy;
And a note in his proud pleasure wounds me
With the grief that is presaged by joy.
I hear not the drum's noisy rattle
For the groan of one hero's release:
Does it call to the banners of battle,
Or call to the colors of Peace?

IV

O ye of the God-given voices,
My poets, of whom I am proud,
Who trumpet the true and the real
When illusions are dazzling the crowd:
Go, turn men from wolves and from cattle,
Till Love be the one Golden Fleece.
Oh, call us no more unto battle,
But call to the colors of Peace!

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