The skies seemed true above thee,
  The rose true on the tree;
The bird seemed true the summer through,
  But all proved false to me. 
World, is there one good thing in you,
  Life, love, or death—­or what? 
Since lips that sang, I love thee,
  Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun’s kiss will scarce fall
  Into one flower’s gold cup;
I think the bird will miss me,
  And give the summer up. 
O sweet place, desolate in tall
  Wild grass, have you forgot
How her lips loved to kiss me,
  Now that they kiss me not?

Be false or fair above me;
  Come back with any face,
Summer!—­do I care what you do? 
  You cannot change one place,—­
The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,
  The grave I make the spot,—­
Here, where she used to love me,
  Here, where she loves me not.

ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY.

THE DIRTY OLD MAN.

A LAY OF LEADENHALL.

[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London.  He was best know as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration’s sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse.  He died about the year 1809.  These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]

In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. 
For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,
His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.

’T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat: 
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.

Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.

On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he’d to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus,—­the Dirt gave its name to them both.

Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust. 
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
‘T was a Spiders’ Elysium from cellar to roof.

There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,—­
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man’s manners were truly delightful.