"Once in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street, Dwelt a little sickly orphan; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet. "All the striving anxious forethought That should only come with age, Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon life's sternest page; Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage. "All too weak for childish pastimes, Drearily the hours sped; On his hands so small and trembling Leaning his poor aching head, Or, through dark and painful hours, Lying sleepless on his bed. "Dreaming strange and longing fancies Of cool forests far away; And of rosy, happy children, Laughing merrily at play, Coming home through green lanes, bearing Trailing boughs of blooming May. "Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven Gleamed above that narrow street, And the sultry air of Summer (That you call so warm and sweet) Fevered the poor Orphan, dwelling In the crowded alley's heat. "One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl, Through the crowded city's pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall; Where 'mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all. "There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide; There were sparkling fountains glancing, Flowers, which in luxuriant pride Even wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside. "He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face, Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place; Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace. "You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendour spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there. "When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged Orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted, Bitter tears began to flow. "But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!' "Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the loving word. "So he crept to his poor garret; Poor no more, but rich and bright, For the holy dreams of childhood-- Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light-- Floated round the Orphan's pillow Through the starry summer night. "Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay; Did he dream that none spake harshly-- All were strangely kind that day? Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away.