Out of storms and peace light, out of confusing things, Bound in mysterious fashion by the bindings of blood and hate, Lo, are the Nations assembled now At the Twentieth Century Gate. Leaning beside the portal: Close! in the name of God! Over the Garden of Eden, in the evening of this our Day. Over the breast of the Mountain old Where the Ark of deliverance lay. Leaning beside the portal: Hark to the clashing arms! Hark to the voice in the Garden, to the Nations of Earth it calls, "Bid! for the Woman is Christian blood; And the sword and the bayonet falls!" Sold! A Christian Woman! Sold in the name of Christ! Sold to her death in the Eden with its soil by her blood made damp! Sold in the eve of our Mighty Age! With the light of our Age for a lamp! New York City. ARMENIA'S BITTER CRY. By Hetta Lord Hayes Ward. I. World, world, hear our prayer Oh where is Russia, where? A fearful deed is done, Its glare affronts the sun. Smoke! Flame! Fire! Rouse thee, great Russian Sire! When Christian homes are ablaze, Hast thou no voice to raise? Thy neighbor to thee has cried, Pass not on the other side. Look on our dire despair! Where art thou, Czar, oh, where? II. Land of the sun and sea, Wake, Rome and Italy! Our ancient Church in vain Calls thee to break her chain. Shame! Shame! Shame! Where sleeps thy early fame? To death our priests are led, Their flocks lie slaughtered, dead. Awake, good Pope of Rome! Our saints through blood go home; Hear thou their dying plea, Where, where is Italy? III. Land of Fraternite, Brave France, turn not away! Shall blood thy lilies stain? Wilt bear the curse of Cain? Wake! Wake! Wake! For God and glory's sake! On a ghastly funeral pyre, Brave men are burned with fire; God calls to France, the free, "Thy brother, where is he?" Lest God in wrath requite, Awake, befriend the right! IV. Where is good Frederick's son When evil deeds are done? Shall prisons reek and rot, His mother's blood speak not? Haste! Haste! Haste! Time runs too long to waste. If halts the Kaiser dumb, Let all the people come. Your oath must sacred stand, Treaties of Fatherland; Victims of Turk and Kurd, Rest on your plighted word. V.