class="c4">their unworthy skill,
Nor reck of how shame's black eclipse obscured
her purer will.
You think not whence fair thoughts like
flowers gave room to passions low;
You know not of her girlhood's hours; you
do not care to know.

Nay! But the truth cries for the light, and
struggles to be heard;
The story of her bruise and blight shall out
in burning word—
Yours was the power which crushed that
grace and gave it to despair,
And the mask of beauty on that face, your
hands have painted there!

She was the temple of your lust, the altar of
your greed;
The sacrifice of faith and trust you made with
careful heed.
She was the price of pleasure's worth, the
weight against your gold,
Where love and truth repine in dearth, and all
is bought and sold.

And will you loathe your work at last, and
spurn her with disgust?
And shall your pride blot out the past and
hide her murdered trust?
And will you brand upon her brow the deeds
which she doth do?
Speak; Will you dare to hate her now, who
weeps, and pardons you?

Nay, more scoff to see her sink, nor laugh
upon her tears;
You shall not hand hate's baneful drink, and
mock her with your jeers.
Bow down and hide your head for shame, and
for your acts atone,
Accept your guilt; abide your blame; nor cast
a single stone.

And crimson sin shall balance sin, and none
shall be denied,
Till every heart is soft within and humbled
in its pride.
And each with each shall equal stand, and all
be one in worth,
Till every hand shall clasp a hand and love
shall fill the earth.

The Red Flag