"But there is a mightier blow Than the rain of lead and steel, Falling from a heavier hand Than the one the vanquished feel. "Let the armies of the North Rest them thus for many a night; Not with them the issue lies, 'Twixt the powers of Wrong and Right. "Through the fog that wraps us round I can see, as with a glass, Far beyond the rebel hosts Fires that cluster, pause, and pass. "From the wayside and the wood, From the cabin and the swamp, Crawl the harbingers of blood, Black as night, with torch and lamp. "Now they blend in one dense throng; Hark! they whisper, as in ire-- Catch the word before it dies-- Hear the horrid murmur--'Fire!' "Mothers, with your babes at rest, Maidens in your dreaming-land-- Brothers, children--wake ye all! The Avenger is at hand. "Born by thousands in a flash, Angry flames bescourge the air, And the howlings of the blacks Fan them to a fiercer glare. "Crash the windows, burst the doors, Let the helpless call for aid; From the hell within they rush On the negro's reeking blade. "Through the flaming doorway arch, Half-dressed women frantic dart; Demon! spare that kneeling girl-- God! the knife is in her heart. "By his hair so thin and gray Forth they drag the aged sire; First, a stab to stop his pray'r-- Hurl him back into the fire. "What! a child, a mother's pride, Crying shrilly with affright! Dash the axe upon her skull, Show no mercy--she is white. "Louder, louder roars the flame, Blotting out the Southern home, Fainter grow the dying shrieks, Fiercer cries of vengeance come. "Turn, ye armies, where ye stand, Glaring in each others' eyes; While ye halt, a cause is won; While ye wait, a despot dies. "Greater victory has been gained Than the longest sword secures, And the Wrong has been washed out With a purer blood than yours." Soldier, by my mother's pray'r! Thou dost act a demon's part; Tell me, ere I strike thee dead, Whence thou comest, who thou art. Back! I will not let thee pass-- Why, that dress is Putnam's own! Soldier, soldier, where art thou? Vanished--like a shadow gone! The Southern Confederacy may come to that yet, my boy, if it don't take warning in time from its patron Saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, my boy,--I refer to Saint Domingo. Yours, musingly, ORPHEUS C. KERR. LETTER XXIX. INTRODUCING A VERITABLE "MUDSILL," ILLUSTRATING YANKEE BUSINESS TACT, NOTING THE DETENTION OF A NEWSPAPER CHARTOGRAPHIST, AND SO ON. WASHINGTON, D.C., February 2d, 1862.