Save The Boys.

Like Dives in the deeps of Hell
I cannot break this fearful spell,
Nor quench the fires I've madly nursed,
Nor cool this dreadful raging thirst.
Take back your pledge - ye come too late!
Ye cannot save me from my fate,
Nor bring me back departed joys;
But ye can try to save the boys.

Ye bid me break my fiery chain,
Arise and be a man again,
When every street with snares is spread,
And nets of sin where'er I tread.
No; I must reap as I did sow.
The seeds of sin bring crops of woe;
But with my latest breath I'll crave
That ye will try the boys to save.

These bloodshot eyes were once so bright;
This sin-crushed heart was glad and light;
But by the wine-cup's ruddy glow
I traced a path to shame and woe.
A captive to my galling chain,
I've tried to rise, but tried in vain -
The cup allures and then destroys.
Oh! from its thraldom save the boys.

Take from your streets those traps of hell
Into whose gilded snares I fell.
Oh! freemen, from these foul decoys
Arise, and vote to save the boys.
Oh, ye who license men to trade
In draughts that charm and then degrade,
Before ye hear the cry, Too late,
Oh, save the boys from my sad fate.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was an African American abolitionist, suffragist, poet, teacher, public speaker, and writer. Born free in Baltimore, Maryland, she was one of the first African American women to be published in the United States. She was active in social reform movements and used her poetry and prose to advocate for abolition and women's rights. Her best-known works include the poetry collection "Forest Leaves" and the novel "Iola Leroy."

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

The Sparrow's Fall.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

Vashti.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

Dedication Poem.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

Thank God For Little Children.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

English

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"Dumque virent genua
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The muse of boyhood's fervid hour
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Nothing And Something.

It is nothing to me, the beauty said,
With a careless toss of her pretty head;
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It was something to her in after years,
When her eyes were drenched with burning tears,
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And startled to hear a staggering tread.

It is nothing to me, the mother said;
I have no fear that my boy will tread
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It is nothing to me, the young man cried:
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All Here

It is not what we say or sing,
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Saving A Woman: One Phase

    To a lustful thirst she came at first
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    And waxed as a shining flame;
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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,
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    Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.

For beasts you have gentle compassion;
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    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

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