From millions of anguished hearts that rise,
Both day and night to that listening ear,
Which ever stoops their plaints to hear.
'Mid the ruin dire, his hands have wrought,
Let him find the throne, he long has sought;
While starving crowds, in hoarse notes ring,
Not Cotton, but grim old Death, is King!
New-York, May 29, 1862.
M. A.
--New-York Express.