This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War’s great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.

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3 Comments

  1. Leonard Wilson says:

    Longfellow is often dismissed by modern poets and critics as being too didactic and sometimes too simplistic; however, no one can question his technical skill. This poem could be a textbook example (and indeed I have used it so) of the effective application of various sound devices in poetry, especially onomatopoeia, alliteration, assonance and consonance. Also he displays a masterful choice of diction that combines the sounds of words with vivid connotations and apt allusions. Furthermore, he varies the meter as well as any poet I know to throw the emphasis automatically to the most important words. Technically, this is a miniature masterpiece. As far as the idea of the poem is concerned, perhaps his solution to the problem of war is a bit too idealistic, but then we have never really tried it.

  2. RUTH MORLEY says:

    I have recently visited the Springfield Armory Museum in Springfield, Mass. and saw a display of the civil war rifles on end in a case looking very similar to a church organ. In front of the display was the poem by Longfellow, The Arsenal at Springfield. So one can still see the inspiration for part of this poem.

  3. MIchael says:

    I have a book and its a young girls diary and has a lot of poems written in it and plants sewed in the pages and the rough draf is alittle different

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