THE DREAMER. BY ALICE G. LEE. I dream the only happiness I know. Mrs. Butler. One year ago my heart, like thine, sweet friend, Thrilled to the music of the rustling leaves, And loved all gentle harmonies that blend In one low chorus, when the bosom heaves With long drawn sighs of tremulous delight, As slowly fades the day to deeper night. And I have sat as now in this lone wood, At twilight hour to commune with my heart, All wilder thoughts at rest, a dreamy mood Stole o’er my spirit; sorrow had no part In those still musings, but to breathe, to live, Did such exceeding pleasure to me give. One little year! Oh, heart, thy throbbing cease! How much of life was crowded in its span! My daily paths were pleasantness, and peace, When with swift round this circling year began, But now a shadow rests on earth and sky, Day after day still passes wearily. I meant not to complain; for I have learned In life each hath a sorrow to conceal. I would but tell thee that from earth I turned; I may not even to my friend reveal Why one who is a very child in years Hath drank so deeply at the fount of tears. Thank God for gentle sleep! I close mine eyes, And though all fevered fancies round me throng— Though doubts that almost madden will arise— She hath a power more subtil, and more strong. Her blessed hand is on my forehead pressed, Then comes forgetfulness, and I am blessed. Forgetfulness of care—for oh, I move In happier worlds, and live a purer life; Scorn may not enter there, nor envy prove Discord to melody—unholy strife Afar is banished—joy’s unclouded beams Ever illumine that fair land of dreams. Then wonder not I seek this forest dell, Although mine ears are closed to nature’s voice, A hush, a twilight ’neath the branches dwell; So I have made the summer woods my choice, And sleeping with the shadows through the day, Forget the world, and dream my life away. * * * * * THE DEMON OF THE MIRROR. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. It was sunset on the mountain, It was twilight on the plain; And the Night was slowly creeping, Like a captive from his keeping, Up the Fading East again, Where on rosy shores of sunlight broke the surges of his main. Where the orange branches mingled On the sunny garden-side, In a rare and rich pavilion Sat the beautiful Sicilian— Sat the Count Alberto’s bride, Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy eveningtide.