y,
I pluck the shadow with the rose.

Just near enough my heart you stood
To shadow it,--but was it fair
In him, who plucked and bore you off,
To leave your shadow lingering there?

ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS.

HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE?

Has summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind?
Is the blue changed above thee,
O world! or am I blind?
Will you change every flower that grows,
Or only change this spot,
Where she who said, I love thee,
Now says, I love thee not?

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