I never see a fairy girl, with health’s glow upon her cheek, and love’s light in her beaming eye; I never hear her silvery laugh, and listen to the echo of her sweet voice, but I think of the darkness of coming years. I have seen so many a beautiful thing wither and fall to the grave; I have watched the overthrow of so many earthly schemes, and noted the death of so many earthly hopes, that I tremble for the trusting, warm heart, which I know must ere long bleed over some faded dream or withered idol. I have stood by the low, calm resting-place of age, where the aged man, with his snowy locks, was sweetly sleeping; but I shed no tear over his fate. For must it not be pleasant, after a long life of care and toil, and it may be of suffering, to lie down at last in the grave, to bid adieu to a changing world, and welcome the joys of everlasting life? But my tears have watered the fresh sod beneath which slumbered the young, the gay, the beautiful. I have wept, Heaven knows how bitterly, over the blighting of youthful loveliness—over the faded wreath of earthly love. But amid all the gloom, all the decay around, there comes a soft, sweet whisper—a low, gentle breathing, as from an angel’s lips, soothing the heart, and pouring into the bleeding bosom the balm of consolation. * * * * * The following beautiful poem is taken from a volume recently published in London, entitled, “Poems by a Sempstress,” and has never been reprinted in this country. It possesses great merits, and if the authorship be authentic, is certainly a remarkable production. THE DREAMER. Not in the laughing bowers, Where, by green twining arms, a pleasant shade, A summer-noon is made; And where swift-footed hours Steal the rich breath of the enamored flowers; Dream I—nor where the golden glories be, At sunset paving o’er the flowing sea, And to pure eyes the faculty is giv’n To trace the smooth ascent from earth to heaven. Not on the couch of ease, With all appliances of joys at hand; Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command, Viands that might a god-like palate please, And music’s soul-creative ecstasies; Dream I—nor gloating o’er a wide estate, Till the full, self-complacent heart, elate, Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth, Sighs for an immortality on earth: