i 4 4 THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
��"A LITTLE HER Or
��BY HENRIETTA E. PAGE. •
When the welcome morning sun's soft, rosy beams of light Had chased the gloomy shadows of cold and darkling night ; On thy shining, snowy slopes, Oh ! ghastly, grim Mount Ayr, Was exposed a touching sight, most pitiably fair: Two little children, lost! pain, hunger, and fear oppressed, Had sunk to sleep forever, on thy cruel freezing breast.
A fair and beauteous girl, a brave and dauntless boy,
— Some stricken mother's darlings — bereaved household's joy.
Stripped of his own warm coat, was the " little hero" lying —
His naked breast exposed, to God, for pity crying;
Within his sheltering arms the tiny maiden lay,
Wrapped closely in the coat — vain hope — her fleeting life to stay.
Fixed were the fro/en features in calm repose of death,
Firm clasped the clinging - fingers, and chilled the once warm breath ;
Hushed were the seekers' voices— softened each hasty tread —
Fast fell the pitying tear-drops upon each golden head.
Many have been thy victims— Oh! reaper, grim and white —
But ne'er before had mortal eyes beheld so sad a sight.
'T was not in beat of battle this pale young hero fell. There were no kindly comrades of his brave deeds to tell; There was no rattling drum-beat to stir his thick'ning blood, But bravely, and face to face, with ghastly death he stood. He did not shirk his duty, he heard his Captain's call. And with banner tightly grasped did this young hero fall.
��LONGFELLOW.
��BY G. BANCROFT GRIFFITH.
The sanctities of home were oft his theme, And children's mirth sweet music to his ear;
Loved as the murmur of his native stream Their laughter ringing clear.
His birds of passage, singing as the}' go.
Their tenderest strains reserve for little souls ; So in young hearts, his silvered head laid low,
The wave of sorrow rolls.
They see the vacant chair of chestnut wood,
Cut from the spreading tree by blacksmith's door,
He prized and sang of in such genial mood They loved him more and more.
And at the children's hour with blinding tears Dear mothers think of him who fondly said,
His pets, within the walls affection rears, Were safe till he was dead.
Ah, precious truth ! at threescore-years and ten He thought the children " living' poems" still;
Serene and patient, and so loved of men, O, who his place can fill !
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