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VOL. 111.
llepublished by request.
The Prayer of the South.
BY MOINA —EEV. ABIiAM J. BY AN.
My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod!
My face is wan and white with many
woes,
But I will lift my poor, chained hands to
God,
And for my children pray, and for my
foes.
Beside the graves where thousands lowly
lic
I kneel, and weeping for each slaughter
ed son,
I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky,
And pray, oh! Father, Thy will be done!
My heart is filled with anguish deep, and
vast;
My hopes are buried with my children’s
dust;
My joys have fled, my tears are flowing
. fast—
In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall
I trust?
Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft,
When I was happy, rich, and proud, and
free;
But conquerred now, and crushed, I
look aloft,
And sorrow leads me, Father, back to
Thee.
Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman’s
path
I kneel, and wailing o’er my glories gone,
I still each thought of hate, each throb
of wratb,
And whisper, Father, let Thy will be
done!
Pity mo, Father of the desolate!
Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear;
Look down in mercy on my wretched
fate,
And keep me, guard me, with thy loving
care.
Pity me, Father, for His holy sake,
Whose broken heart bled at the feet of
grief,
That hearts of earth, wherever they shall
break,
Might go to His and find a sure relief.
Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief
eclipse ?
Or is it night with no to-morrow’s sun ?
Oh! Father! Father! with my pale sad
lips,
And sadder heart, I pray, Thy will be
done.
My homes are joyless, and a million
mourn
Where many met in joys forever llown ;
Whose hearts were light, are burdened
now and torn ;
Where many smiled, but one is left to
moan.
And, ah! the widow’s wails, the orphan’s
cries,
Are morning hymn and vesper chant to
me;
And groans of men aud sounds of wo
men’s sighs
Commingle, Father, with mv prayer to
Thee.
Beneath my feet ten thousand children
dead—
Oh! how I loved each known and name
less one!
Above their dust I bow my crownless
head,
And murmur —Father, still Thy will be
done.
Ah! lather, Thou didst deck my own
loved land
With all bright charms, and beautiful
and fair;
But foemen came, aud, with a ruthles
hand,
Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there.
Girdled with gloom, of all my bright
ness shorn,
And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy
rod, *
And turn my face, with tears all wet and
worn,
To catch one smile of pity from my God.
Around me blight, where all before was
bloom,
And so much lost, alas! and nothing
won!
Save this—that I can lean on wreck and
tomb
And weep, and weeping, pray Thy will
he done.
And oh! ’tis hard to say, but said, ’tis
sweet;
The words are bitter, but they hold a
halm—
A balm that heals the wounds of my de
feat,
And lulls my sorrows into holy calm.
It is the prayer of prayers, and how it
brings,
When heard in heaven, peace and hope to
me
When Jesus prayed it, did not angels’
wings
Gleam ’mid the darkness of Gethsemane?
My children, Father, Thy forgiviness
need;
Alas! their hearts have only place for
, tears!
Forgive them, Father, ev’ry wrongful
deed
And ev 7 ry sin of those four bloody years.
And give them strength to bear their
boundless loss,
And from their hearts take every thought
of hate;
And while they climb their Calvary with
their Cross,
Oh! help them, Father to enduro its
weight.
And for my deac>, my Father, may I
pray?
Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall
soothe me more!
I keep eternal watch above their clay ;
Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I im
plore!
Forgive my foes—they know not what
they do—
Forgive them all the tears they made me
shed;
Forgive them, though my noblest sons
they slew;
And bless them, though they curse my
poor, dear dead.
Oh! may my woes be each a carrier-dove,
With swift, white wings, that bathing in
my tears,
Will hear Thee, Father, all my prayers
of love,,
And bring me peace in all my doubts
and fears.
Father, I kneel, ’mid ruin, wreck and
grave—
A desert waste, where all was erst so
fair—
And for my children and my foes I crave
Pity and pardon—Father, hear my
prayer !
[Written for the Banner of tlie South]
HENRY WARREN;
OR,
The Confederate Soldier’s Revenge.
EY F. FAUNTLEROY, OF TEXAS.
Mrs. Hopkins had a good supper pre
pared for the new guest. After the meal
was finished vhe two families sat and
conversed together.
‘'l have returned, Mr. Hopkins, to see
and know the situation of my parents
and sister, and do what I can to secure
their safety and comfort. It is needless
to say I received your sad letter.”
“You certainly have enough, my dear
boy, to distress you; and it is mv happi
ness, and I regard it my duty, to lighten
the burden as much as I can. Our heav
enly Father has been pleased to bless me
with enough for rny reasonable wants,
and something to spare for my friends
who are less fortunate than myself. Your
AUGUSTA, GAI., JULY 30, 1870.
parents and Sallie have been with me
since the melancholy catastrophe; and
they must remain a part of my family.
I expect them, as they have done, to add
much pleasure and comfort to the house
hold. So, Henry, you must give your
self no uneasiness on that account.”
“Yes,” said the elder Warren, “I
know not what we should have done, but
fjr the rare kindness of our friends; and
we shall never be able to express our
gratitude.”
“And my poor heart,” added Henry,
“offers its tribute. But it is too great
a weight to fall upon your shoulders.”
“I hope you will not over-estimate
what has been or may be done,” said
Mr. Hopkins; “and will allow me to
have my own way in this matter. I wish
to say now that, apart from our long
friendship; which it would be cruelty to
me to prevent me from gratifying, I feel
that I am acting under Providence, per
forming a solemn religious duty—a duty
to God, my country, and my fellow men.”
“And may the Almighty reward y’ou
with His blessing,” Henry warmly ex
claimed.
“Amen,” sincerely came from the
hearts of the parents and sister.
“My dear friend, lam unable to ex
press my gratitude to you, and I hope
the day may come when I can make
some return for your extraordinary good
ness ”
“Give no thought of such things, I
pray you, Henry. If I can be of service
to your friends, who are also mine, and
assist you in your duty to our country, I
shall he fully rewarded ”
“Their comfort,” said Henry, “is the
chief consideration with me. As to my
self, I have little or nothing to live f)r.”
“It is natural for you to feel so, Hen
ry; but I hope for a better day for you
and for us all. You are still young and
much of good may*be, I trust, intended
for you in the future. We are all sorely
tried in this world; but we must summon
our manliness and courage to bear the
burden Providence chooses to impose
upon us. Tie doeth all things well.’ ”
Henry had too much respect for his
excellent friend, to express his own bit
ter feelings. He asked:
“Has our place been destroyed ?”
“It was greatly injured,” responded
the father, “but not destroyed. Some
repairing has been done, and Mr. Ser
geant has agreed to take the place on
reasonable terms. We intended to re
turn to our old home, but were dissuaded
by Mr. Hopkins, who said the Federals
might make another assault, and it had
better be in other hands.”
Henry observed that, “Mr. Hopkins’
judgment was very probably correct.”
The conversation was continued un
til eleven o’clock was announced from
the mantel. All assembled around the
family altar, and bent in worship of the
Great Mysterious. The good man of
fered an earnest and touching prayerr
appropriate to the occasion.
Henry went out and closely scanned
the immediate vicinity of the house.
Mrs. Hopkins, anxious to do every
thing which might tend to alleviate
Henry’s deep distress, had a room ar
ranged for him in a manner to present
the most cheerful appearance. He un
derstood and appreciated the motive;
but no human power could withdraw
the shaft that quivered in his aching
heart. Though he jested on the most
comfortable couch, he found hut little
repose; and left his room at early dawn
in a feverish condition.
His first care was bestowed upon the
faithful animal that had done so much,
aud was to render so much more service.
Old uncle George, a good and true ser
vant, was giving her the morning food
He learned from the aged Negro where
the new graves were situated, and re
paired to the hall >wed spot. On one
headboard was written, “Mary,” and on
the other “Willie.” They were sleeping
side bv side. °
A sensitive nature will understand
what it was that bonnd Henry down to
the fresh earth. It is useless to say
that he wept, that he groaned, that his
heart was near to bursting. Wc expect
woman, in the softness of her being, to
express her woe by teare, to weep over
her afflictions ; but there is something
almost frightful in the convulsive grief
of a stern man; one who has faced the
most appalling dangers, and under
gone the severest hardships and trials.
Here, in the presence of death; when
he felt that his angel wife and brother
had descended to meet him; when he
felt he was as near to Heaven as mortals
can approach, he renewed the terrible
vow he had uttered in the forest.
The family were informed by old
George where Henry had gone ; but no
one disturbed his sorrow.
Anxious to know all the details of the
wrongs done by the Federals to his fami
ly, but not wishing to harrow the feelings
of his relatives by his enquiries, Henry
went, after breakfast was finished, to
“Aunt Winney,” who had witnessed all,
and drew from her what he desired to
know. As he expected, the picture was
even darker than the Pareon had por
trayed.
“Did the wretches strike either of my
parents, Aunt Winney ?”
“No, massa Henry, dey dind’t strike
’em; but dey took massa by de beard
and shook him and pulled him around
by it, and cussed missus most awful. I
never heard such talk since I was born
in dis world ”
“Did they do more than strike Sallie ?”
“Dey cussed her de same way, and
slapped her face, and knocked her down
on de door, an, massa Henry, dey kicked
her out de house, and beat her clean to
de gate, where poor massa Willie was
lyin dead and covered with blood all
over de poor chile. Oh! it was shockin
to be sure. I could hardly believe what
I see wid my own eyes. I prajs God
never to see such sights any more. When
they begun to shoot, all in the house was
skeered most to death, and was afeared
to move.”
Henry had almost suspended his breath
to hear of the abomnable crime for which
Yankee soldiers were distinguished.
“Thank God Sallie escaped so well!
How did they treat Mary ?” he asked
with emotion.
“Ib’lieve she de most frightened of
all. They cussed her an threatened her.
Dey said de worst words dey could, an
cussed you, and said dey was a gwine to
hunt you till dey got you and dey would
hang you like a dog for old buzzards to
eat.”
“Yes, they’ll find me,” muttered Hen
ry to himself. *
“She was white as a sheet,” continued
the old woman, “and I never see such
big eyes as she had, an she fetched such
a scream 1 I thinks I c;ui tear her now,
an she started and runned all de way
to inassa Hopkins’s an fainted on de
ground as soon as she got in de gate,
an she never knowed any body any more
after dat. She was hoggin you to keep
them off, and she was callin 'you
an prayin to God till she died. You
seemed to be in her mind all de time.”
For some moments Henry was unable
to speak. Attempting to suppress his
emotions, he asked, with a choked voice:
“Did any of ‘the devils lay hands on
her ?”
“No, sah, none of ’em teched her at
all.”
This answer was a great relief to his
soul.
“Who attended to poor little Willie ?”
“I jest went to him an put a blanket
around him an took him up in my arms
an bring him to de kitchen. Dat was
was after dey made all de white folks
run. After de soldiers left, I cleaned de
house as I could, an I took him in de
house an massa Hopkins and Miss Fanny
and George come down den an we washed
him an covered him up and brung him
up to massa Hopkins’, and soon some o’
the neighbors come in and helped. Dey
all done everything they could. Miss
Mary and mass Willie ‘ was dressed
in de best way, as the lass thing we could
do for em on dis earth, but puttin em in
de grave.
“I feel very thankful to you all. Aunt
Winney you must never let any Federal
or stranger know that I have returned.”
“I be sure not to do dat, massa Hen
ry; an whenever ole Winney can 6arve
you she’ll be glad to do it, you may de
pend. You can*always trust Winney and
George.”
“I am satisfied of that. I only want
ed to put you on your guard.’’
“My eyes is all open dese times and de
Yankees can’t get nothin out o’ me. I
sees too smart for them.”
Henry next went to old Uncle George
to gain what information could be derived
from him. He reposed entire confidence
in these old domestics. They had always
shown they deserved it.
“I have coine to have a confidential
talk with you, Uncle George.”
“At your service, massa Henry.”
“I expect to remain in this neighbor
hood for some days, and wili conceal
myself as much as possible. Don’t want
it known or suspected that I am about.”
“Ole George will be dum as to dat,
massa Henry; an you knows I’ll do any
thing to help you or any of our folks ”
“Thank you, Uncle George, I shall
perhaps need just such assistance as you
be able to give me; and 1 know you will
aid me faithfully.”
“Be sure of dat, be sure of dat,” said
the old man, who was proud to think he
could be regarded as an important confi
dant and ally.
“Do you know whether any of these
villains are at home now ?”
It should be stated that the company
of Federal soldiers that committed the
outrages which have been related, was re
cruited in the part of the country where
the \\ arren family resided. Some of
these had received favors from Henry’s
father. The company consisted of eighty
men, all unionists of the ultra type, and
nearly all of northern birth or northern
blood.
Answering Henry’s questions, old
George said:
“Can’t tell jest now, but I'se gwino to
mill in the morning", an I can get some
news about ’em I B’pose. ,,
“Well, learn what you can; but be
very cautious, uncle George.”
“Never mind about dat, young massa.
I’se too old now to be cotched in a
trap I sets myself. I has jest de way of
findin out widout making any suspicion.”
“I will come back, then, to-morrow
night to learn something more.”
“Well, massa, I’ll be ready to tell you
all that I can find out.”
“I will not inform you, uncle George,
where will be my place of concealment,
because you will then be able to say
with truth that you know not where I
am ; but I will tell you how you can find
me when necessary, if I am to be found
at all. You know the little valley in the
mountains where the Lone Rock stands ?”
“Ren dah a hundred times.”
“Well, when you want to communi
cate with me, go to the old hollow syce
more on Elm Creek, and make as straight
a line for the valley as you can, and when
you get there ride around the Lone Rock
three times. If you see or hear nothing
ot mo \v ithin halt an hour, leave a stick
against the South side of the rock, so
that I may know that you have been
there.”
“All right, massa Henry; I listens
well.”
Henry returned to the house and in
formed his friends that lie intended to
leave that particular locality. They re
monstrated, but he soon convinced them
it was the dictate of prudence. He
would not tell them of his hiding place fur
the same reason that he withheld the fact
from George; but told them if they
No. 20.