Thick murky clouds obscure the sky, and a chill
damp air compels me to sit in my tent with my cloak on. I may exclaim,
in the language of the Chippewas, _Tyau, gitche sunnahgud_ (oh, how hard
is my fate.)
At two o'clock I made another excursion to view the broad lake and see
if some favorable sign could not be drawn, but returned with nothing to
cast a gleam on the angry vista. It seemed as if the lake was convulsed
to its bottom.
OUTARD POINT.
What narrowed pleasures swell the bosom here,
A shore most sterile, and a clime severe,
Where every shrub seems stinted in its size,
"Where genius sickens and where fancy dies."
If to the lake I cast my longing view,
The curling waves their noisy way pursue;
That noise reminds me of my prison-strand,
Those waves I most admire, but cannot stand.
If to the shore I cast my anxious eye,
There broken rocks and sand commingled lie,
Mixed with the wrecks of shells and weeds and wood,
Crushed by the storm and driven by the flood.
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