Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dost thou mark the murmur, like the ocean beating
On the iron rocks of some bleak, barren shore,
Wildly now advancing, slowly now retreating,
Chafing, mourning, sobbing, tossing evermore?
Dost thou hear those feeble voices falling,
From the darkness, on thy careless heart?
Those are voices of the children, calling
Unto thee to play a brother's part:—
Unto thee they speak in anguish
For the help thou mayest give;
Let them now no longer languish,
Brother, let thy sisters live!
Those from fields of slaughter,
Where they wounded lie,
Crave a cup of water,

Or they can but die;
Some are failing,
Spent are some,
All keep wailing—
“Come!”

Dost thou note the tramp of many little paces,
Seeking for a refuge, never finding rest?
Though thou seëst not the warp'd and wither'd faces
Of the babes that yesterday hung on the breast.
Dost thou hear that stifled moan of sorrow,
Out of sickness and beyond the sight,
Praying for the sunshine of the morrow,
And when morn comes praying for the night?
Orphans are they, without mother,
In the furnace and the shame;
Shouts of pleasure cannot smother
The intolerable flame.
From the lepers' quarter,
They, in helpless state,
Beg a cup of water,
Ere it is too late.
Sad their crying,
As they sink,
“We are dying!—
Drink!”

Dost thou not remember it was children's prattle,
Which in music up to Heaven was sent of old,
Where is raging now the deadly strife of battle
For existence, at the price of honour sold?
Dost thou know they are the children's voices,
Sisters who are bound with many chains?
While thy life is radiant and rejoices,
They lie writhing in accursèd pains.
Theirs are buds that would be bursting
Into blossoms fair to see,
Were they not so vainly thirsting
For the showers that fall on thee.
If thou has a daughter,

Think of those that lack
Just a cup of water,
On their weary track.
Mercy leading—
Help them live;
They are pleading—
“Give!”

Dost thou reck not of the fighting, and the straining
Of the tiny hands beseeching ere they sink,
Horror of the drowning, fierce and frenzied paining,
As the slender forms go toppling o'er the brink?
Dost thou feel no pulse of human pity
For the outcasts that are yet thy kin,
Lost and helpless in the woeful city,
All alone in sorrow with their sin?
Brother, ere the daylight darken,
Ere the final shadows fall,
With a brother's blessing hearken
To thy sister's last faint call.
Bitter need has caught her
In its cruel coil,
For a cup of water
To wash out the soil.
She goes blindly
Stumbling now;
Raise her kindly,
Thou!

Dost thou trifle with thy duties thus, and tarry
At the sparkling wine-cup, or the glutton's feast,
Callous to the grinding of the woes that carry
Judgment to the villains baser than the beast?
Dost thou think that thy own debt is nothing,
Unto her who has so little joy—
That thy wealth of gold and food and clothing
Was but dealt thee as a selfish toy?
Oh, for shame, shake off thy dreaming,
And thy pride's cold coward frost!
Tears are falling, blood is streaming—

Shall thy sister's soul be lost?
Has thy solace sought her,
Given her all she asks—
But a cup of water,
In her fiery tasks?
She walks lamely
To and fro;
Sit not tamely—
Go!

Dost thou loiter feebly, when the hours are broken
With the sighs of captives under bolt and bar—
When on foreheads young is branded the black token
Of the humbled honour, that has left the scar?
Dost thou wish to leave the world, no better
For thy passage through it to the grave?
Shall not thy hand break a single fetter
From the neck of one poor hopeless slave?
Up and stir thee in the struggle,
That is raging round thee still!
Not a moment stay to juggle
With the damnèd powers of ill!
Christ the Holy bought her,
Thy stain'd sister, first;
With a cup of water,
Quench her killing thirst.
She weeps lonely
In grim fact;
Talk not only—
Act!

Dost thou yet as worse than brute and craven linger,
Wasting precious powers in niggard ease and sloth,
While the scorn that scathes, with stern contemptuous finger,
Points at victims of thy violated troth?
Dost thou fear not God, infatuate sleeper?
Dost thou care not evil such may cease?
Wake and rise! thou art thy sister's keeper;
Or, found wanting, ever hold thy peace!
Listen to the children's crying,

Suffering, bleeding, bound, and poor;
Hearts are breaking, souls are dying;
'Tis thy sister at thy door.
Thine the hands that brought her,
Innocent, to shame;
Thine the cup of water,
In the Saviour's name.
Bells keep tolling;
Lives are gone;
Time is rolling.
On!