ody. Thus

"Every pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rise."

_7th_. Still detained on this bleak and desolate Point. A heavy rain and
very strong gale continued all night. The rain was driven with such
violence as to penetrate through the texture of my tent, and fall
copiously upon me. Daybreak brought with it no abatement of the storm,
but presented to my view a wide vista of white foaming surge as far as
the eye could reach. In consequence of the increasing violence of the
storm, I was compelled to order my baggage and canoe to be removed, and
my tent to be pitched back among the trees. How long I am to remain here
I cannot conjecture. It is a real equinoxial storm. My ears are stunned
with the incessant roaring of the water and the loud murmuring of the
wind among the foliage. 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.

E'en fishes there, high cast upon the shore,
Yet pant with life and stain the rocks with gore.
Would here the curious eye expect to meet
Aught precious in the sands beneath his feet,
Ores, gems, or crystals, fitting for the case,
No spot affords so poor, so drear a place.
Rough rounded stones, the sport of every wind,
Is all th' inquirer shall with caution find.
A beach unvaried spreads before the eye;
Drear is the land and stormy is the sky.

Would the fixed eye, that dotes on sylvan scenes,
Draw pleasure from these dark