The Waste Of War Poem by John Critchley Prince

Give me the gold that War has cost,
In countless shocks of feud and fray,
The wasted skill, the labour lost,
The mental treasure thrown away,—
And I will buy each rood of soil
In every yet discovered land,
Where hunters roam, where peasants toil,
Where many-peopled cities stand.

I'll clothe each ragged wretch on earth
In needful, yea, in brave attire,
Vesture befitting banquet mirth,
Which kings might envy and admire.
In every vale, on every plain,
A school shall glad the gazer's sight,
Where every poor man's child may gain
Pure knowledge, free as air and light.

I'll build asylums for the poor,
By age or ailment made forlorn;
And none shall thrust them from the door,
Or sting with looks and words of scorn.
I'll link each alien hemisphere;
Help honest men to conquer wrong;
Art, Science, Labour, nerve and cheer;
Reward the poet for his song.

In every crowded town shall rise
Halls academic, amply graced,
Where ignorance may soon be wise,
And coarseness learn both art and taste.
To every province shall belong
Collegiate structures, and not few,
Filled with a truth-exploring throng,
With teachers of the good and true.

In every free and peopled clime
A vast Walhalla hall shall stand,
A marble edifice sublime
For the illustrious of the land;
A pantheon for the truly great,
The wise, benevolent, and just!
A place of wide and lofty state
To honour or to hold their dust.

A temple to attract and teach
Shall lift its spire on every hill,
Where pious men shall feel and preach
Peace, mercy, tolerance, good-will.
Music of bells on Sabbath days
Round the whole earth shall gladly rise,
And one great Christian song of praise
Stream sweetly upward to the skies.