THE YOUNG AUTHOR'S DREAM.

'One more Unfortunate.' Alone in a garret where cobwebs hang thick Over walls that display the bare mortar and brick, Whose windows look down on the roofs of back sheds, From a height that would dizzy the coolest of heads, A young author sits by a rickety stand, In a broken-backed chair, with a pen in his hand, And patiently toils ere the sunlight shall fade To black the last quire of a ream of 'white laid.' The shadows have deepened that hang on the wall; But the Finis is written, the pen is let fall; And, glad of a respite from labors complete, His hands and his head press the last written sheet. Sleep comes not alone; for the goddess of dreams Is accustomed to visit this blacker of reams. Like the man that sits under a monster balloon, And soars o'er the earth halfway up to the moon, Now stepping at once into Fancy's fair car, He sails from the dusky old garret afar; And, leaving the world with its practical crowds, Such visions as these meet his gaze in the clouds:

THE DREAM. Forty large editions Of the 'thrilling tale;' Forty thousand dollars, Net proceeds of sale. Forty smiling critics Lavishing their praise; Forty famous florists Bidding for the bays. Forty thousand maidens Sitting up at night, Poring o'er the volume With intense delight. Forty thousand letters From the country sent, Blurred by frequent teardrops, Filled with sentiment. Forty scheming mothers Anxious for a match; Forty blushing daughters, Each a glorious catch. Forty generations Reverence his name; Forty future ages Fortify his fame.

THE REALITY. Forty dunning letters Coming every day; Forty cents for washing, Which he cannot pay. Forty jokes malicious Cracked by forty wags; Forty pert young misses Sneering at his rags. Forty old companions Wondering at his mood; Forty friends officious Preaching fortitude. Forty days of sadness; Forty nights of sorrow; Forty dark forebodings Hanging o'er the morrow. Forty hempen inches Borrowed from a friend; Rafter at the upper, Neck at lower, end. Forty earthy spadefuls On the green hillside; Forty lines of 'local,' Telling now he died.