The Birth of a Nation
Know not you never can
Attain unto your high estate and rich,
While holding your dark brother in the ditch?
Hold! rash, misguided fool!
Why will you be the tool
Of passions, devilish, ignoble, base,
Wherein no God-like action one can trace?
Traducer of a race,
You, who are fair of face,
Stop! lest the children of a darker hue
In love, shall prove superior to you!
O, brother, pause! reflect!
Each cause has its effect,
This is the law: your acts or soon or late,
Will reap a bounteous harvest,--hate for hate.