I saw the spot-a grave-shaped mound,-
And knew my babe lay under ground.

"My only child! and where, oh! where

Was she who gave it life?

I shrieked aloud in my despair
For her, my murdered wife.
A cold hand fell upon my own,
I heard my whispered name,
A pale face in the moon-light shone,
And wild thoughts went and came,
Until that low voice, warning, said,
'Be still, alas! she is not dead."

"Oh God! the dark tale that she told-
That old and withered dame-
And yet my heart stood still and cold
To hear those words of shame.
My home by hirelings burnt, my child
Stifled amid its flame,

My wife by demon arts beguiled,

Blackening my honored name;

The pure sweet lips that I had kissed, Press'd by the fiend whose curse had hissed

But late around my dying child

And blazing home-by him beguiled!
I was so calm, I think I smiled.

THE MISSOURI CAPTAIN.

Henceforth, one aim should fill my soul,

One purpose nerve my hand,
My life should have one only goal.
And at my Fate's command,

I knelt above the turf where lay,
My murdered child--but not to pray.

"The curse I breathed, the oath I swore,

Burn yet upon my brain,

No after hope existence bore,

No feelings yet remain

Save stern revenge, and love for thee,

My own, my bleeding land.
My only dream-to see thee free
And bright and glorious stand
Among the nations of the earth,
The first in glory and in worth.

"And now, to see thy sons despair

So soon of thy release,

To hear throughout thy realm one prayer

For ignominious peace!

To see them throw their arms aside

And leave thee to thy fate

More dear that in thy hour of pride,

Now thou art desolate.

Just God! the chains that thou must wear,

The heavy insults thou must bear !

"Oh! by thy wrongs and by my own,

The bones of my dead child,

My home in blackened ashes strown,

By all that drove me wild,

365

I swear this well-worn sword I hold
Shall ever sheathless be
Until this burning blood is cold,
Or else, my country free.
Revenge, revenge is all I crave,
And then a soldier's lowly grave."

The storm that gathered o'er his head,
In pealing thunders broke;

The oak, whose branches near him spread,
Was shivered as he spoke.
He heeded not the omen dire,
Strong feeling shook his soul;
He knelt amid the tempest's fire,
The thunder's heavy roll.
Brave, eagle soul, without a mate!
The young, the proud, the desolate,
Scathed by the lightning bolt of fate!

NATCHITOCHES TIMES, LA., June 3d, 1865.

The Front.

BY A. R. WATSON, GEORGIA.

["Mamma, what is the report?" asked a four year old prattler. I answer the question for that mother.]

A GREAT long line of men, my boy,

Who breast to breast with the foe,

Stand there in the cold, the heat, the rain,

And bear such toils again and again,

As I hope you may never know.

THE FRONT.

'Tis a line of glittering guns, my boy, And sabres keen and bright,

And cannon grim, whose terrible sound.

Like an earthquake shakes the solid ground,
Till it rocks in very fright.

Every man who stands in that line, my boy,
Every man who holds a gun,

Is a savior, my boy, for you and me;

They have bared their bosoms to make us free;
We were slaves unless it were done.

You know where our old home stood, my boy?
Ah! I know you remember it well!

But the dear old house stands not there now,
It is gone and the papers have told us how
It was burned by a Yankee shell.

They fired at our army there, my boy,
Our front ran along by the farm-
They heard the whistling missiles come
Which left us, my boy, without a home;
But it did far greater harm.

For great, good men were there, my boy,
Where the cruel iron fell,

And two brave fellows bit the dust
And ten were wounded by the burst
Of the shrieking Yankee shell.

You think it a cruel thing, my boy,
To kill each other so,

But were you a man, like those who stand

367

UNIVERSITY

JF CALIFORNIA

In a line at the front, to protect their land,
I would have you stand there too.

For my country is in distress, my boy;
They have said we shall not be free,

They have dotted our hills all over with graves;
But our homes are not yet the homes of slaves,
Pray God they may never be!

But I fear they would, they would, my boy,
But for the great, long, line

At the front, whose cannon do bloody work,
Who handle the sword with a wicked jerk,
While they fight for you and me.

They do not think it wrong, my boy,
That the great baptismal font

Which seals our freedom to us, and saves
You and me, my boy, from being slaves,
Is filled with blood at the front.

METROPOLITAN RECORD.

Ethnogenesis.

BY HENRY TIMROD.

Written during the meeting of the first Southern Congress at
Montgomery, Alabama, February, 1861.

I.

HATH not the morning dawned with added light? And shall not evening call another star

Out of the infinite regions of the night,

To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are