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■ -——■ rrrrr I y~~" ■ ■ - -- - ■—■ ■ ■"' ■ ivwi.gMw»»««««..«««> .1 «■——■■— 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.