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THE DREAMERS.
Countless as the stars, whose numbers
Mock us where their brightness glows,
Are the dreams, that haunt our slumbers
When we're gathered to repose;
And, as each soft starry peeper
Bursts forth in its own bright beam,
So it is with every sleeper—
Each one hath a separate dream.

Mother, on thy couch reclining
With thy pale cheek wet with tears,
Sleep around thy heart is twining
Buried hopes of former years;
Dream'st thou of each faded blossom,
Folded once upon thy breast?
Mourn not, for within his bosom
They have found a safer rest.

Maiden, whose warm cheek is glowing
With the spirit of thy dreams,
Each wild bud of fancy blowing
To thy mind as real seems;