"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 LightFloated 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.

"And he smiled, though they were fading;
One by one their leaves were shed;
Such bright things could never perish,
They would bloom again,' he said.
When the next day's sun had risen

Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one! our Father
Will no gentle deed disdain;
Love on the cold earth beginning
Lives divine in Heaven again,
While the angel hearts that beat there

Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently

O'er his little burthen leant ;

While the child gazed from the shining,
Loving eyes that o'er him bent,
To the blooming roses by him,
Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered,
And with tender meaning smiled:
"Ere your childlike, loving spirit,
Sin and the hard world defiled,
God has given me leave to seek you-
I was once that little child!"

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.

BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.—1811-63.

[THE great novelist was too prolific a prose writer to have established any great favouritism for his poetry; his reputation is that of the modern Fielding, and, as the most distinguished novel humourist of the century, his name will long be recognised. Incidentally however-sometimes in "Punch," sometimes as the impromptu utterances of his fictitious characters, he gave vent to his rich fancy and gayer mood in poetry: these stray verses now form one of the most acceptable volumes of his collected works, and some of them entitle him to the distinct fame of poet; we select one in which he recals with much pathos, brightened by the remembrance of old gaiety, a retrospect of a student life. Mr. Thackeray was the son of a gentleman in the East India Company's Service, and was born in Calcutta, but educated from his seventh year in England; his grandfather was the Rev. Richard Thackeray, of Hadley, Middlesex.]

N tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,

IN

And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds, and foolish old ends,

Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked);
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;

A twopenny treasury, worthless to see;

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours and the night and the chimes
Here we talk of old books and old friends and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie

This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.