Many a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a passing, sunny gleam, Many a bright tear in mine eye, Many a wild and wandering dream, Stolen from hours I should have tied To musty volumes by my side, Given to hours that sweetly wooed My heart from its study's solitude. Oft when the south wind's dancing free Over the earth and in the sky, And the flowers peep softly out to see The frolic Spring as she wantons by, When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Over the hills and vales a Maying. Then can I hear the earth rejoice, Happier than man may ever be, Every fountain hath then a voice That sings of its glad festivity; For it hath burst the chains, that bound Its currents dead in the frozen ground, And flashing away in the sun has gone, Singing, and singing, and singing on. Autumn hath sunset hours, and then Many a musing mood I cherish, Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween, Hath real sunset never seen, Sad as the faces of friends that die, And beautiful as their memory. Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, Visions the mind may not control, Waking as fancy does in sleep The secret transports of the soul, Faces and forms are strangely mingled, Till one by one they're slowly singled, To the voice and lip, and eye of her I worship like an idolater. Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track From the green earth and misty sky, And spring and love I hurry back; Then what a dismal, dreary gloom Settles upon my loathed room, Darker to every thought and sense Than if they had never travelled thence. Yet, I have other thoughts that cheer The toilsome day, and lonely night, And many a scene and hope appear, And almost make me gay and bright. Honour and fame that I would win, Though every toil that yet hath been Were doubly borne, and not an hour Were brightly hued by Fancy's power. And though I may sometimes sigh to think Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimmed by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine, That toil and study and care are mine. THE SETTLER. BY A. B. STREET. His echoing axe the settler swung Amid the sea-like solitude, And rushing, thundering, down were flung The Titans of the wood; Loud shriek'd the eagle as he dash'd From out his mossy nest, which crash'd With its supporting bough, And the first sunlight, leaping, flash'd On the wolf's haunt below.