The fawn, round whom his coils
The boa winds in rings of steel;
Alas! such peace as foils
The lowest hope of happiness,

Is such as comes our land to bless!

Peace! while yet smoking is the brand
That lit our blackened homes;
Yet reeking with our blood the hand
That now with insult comes !
When peace means ruin, famine, chains,
And infamy, and shame;

All that can stamp a damning stain

Upon a nation's name!

The craven souls!" he hissed the wordHis soul by fiercest passion stirred.

A sudden wind swooped from on high,
And strewed the locust's blooms of foam
And bore from the rude camp near by

The chorus, "Home, sweet home."
And softer grew those scornful lips,
As came that plaintive tone,
And, from the gloomy brow's eclipse,
The eye less fiercely shone;

Although he knew that song bespoke
His men had thrown off duty's yoke.

He heard the shout, the loud adieu,`
The laugh's gay, mocking tone,
With sad, scarce bitter smile, he knew
He soon would be alone;

And he had joyed in other days,

When battle boomed anear, Upon that stalwart band to gaze,

And hear their cheerings clear,

And mark the bright steel gleam on high,
And see his gallant colors fly.

""Tis well," he muttered, "let them go,
Home, love, for them remain,

And these may bid some flowers glow
Around even Slavery's chain,
But me! what is there left for me
Beneath the heaven's wide cope?
Where shall my place of refuge be
Who have no home, no hope?

Home! how that word sends through my brain

The fiery thrills of hate again!

Yes, hate and vengeance-these remain.

"My home! Oh! night of wo and shame,

When after blood and toil,

An outlawed man, by stealth I came

Back to my native soil;

One hour that sacred soil to press,

Disgraced by vandal feet;

One hour to feel my child's caress,
My wife's fond kiss to meet,

I went; beneath Night's clouded dome,
I saw the ashes of my home;

"And for my only welcome sound,
I heard my dog's low moan-
Too weak to leave the spot of ground
Where he was crouched alone.

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.

"And yet that hour in my heart,
Dried every dew of hope,
Saw every olden light depart
That lit my horoscope.

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,

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.