ONE morning ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street: And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height above five feet. A mongrel tint he seem’d to take, Poetic simile to make, DAY through his MARTIN ’gan to break, White overcoming jet. From side to side he cross’d oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek, And yet no English word can speak, He walk’d upon the fret: And while he sought the dingy job, His lab’ring breast appear’d to throb And half a hiccup half a sob Betray’d internal woe. To cry the cry he had by rote He yearn’d, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat, He gaped--but not a crow! I watch’d him, and the glimpse I snatch’d Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch’d With red, as if the soot had catch’d That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, He did not care to brush away; Thought I the cause he will betray-- And thus at last he did. [Illustration: A WIND-FALL.]