An Appeal To My Countrywomen.

You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian          Who weeps in her desolate home.      You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia          From kindred and friends doomed to roam.      You can pity the men who have woven          From passion and appetite chains      To coil with a terrible tension          Around their heartstrings and brains.      You can sorrow o'er little children          Disinherited from their birth,      The wee waifs and toddlers neglected,          Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.      For beasts you have gentle compassion;          Your mercy and pity they share.      For the wretched, outcast and fallen          You have tenderness, love and care.      But hark! from our Southland are floating          Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain,      And women heart-stricken are weeping          Over their tortured and their slain.      On their brows the sun has left traces;          Shrink not from their sorrow in scorn.      When they entered the threshold of being          The children of a King were born.      Each comes as a guest to the table          The hand of our God has outspread,      To fountains that ever leap upward,          To share in the soil we all tread.      When ye plead for the wrecked and fallen,          The exile from far-distant shores,      Remember that men are still wasting          Life's crimson around your own doors.      Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters,          Just a plea, a prayer or a tear,      For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadows          Of agony, hatred and fear?      Men may tread down the poor and lowly,          May crush them in anger and hate,      But surely the mills of God's justice          Will grind out the grist of their fate.      Oh, people sin-laden and guilty,          So lusty and proud in your prime,      The sharp sickles of God's retribution          Will gather your harvest of crime.      Weep not, oh my well-sheltered sisters,          Weep not for the Negro alone,      But weep for your sons who must gather          The crops which their fathers have sown.      Go read on the tombstones of nations          Of chieftains who masterful trod,      The sentence which time has engraven,          That they had forgotten their God.      'Tis the judgment of God that men reap          The tares which in madness they sow,      Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime,          And Sin is the consort of Woe.