| Yet thought of day makes dream of night: |
| She is not worthy of the knight, |
| The inmost altar burns not bright. |
| If loneliness thou canst not bear, |
| Cannot the dragon's venom dare, |
| Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair. |
| Now sadder that lone maiden sighs, |
| Far bitterer tears profane her eyes, |
| Crushed in the dust her heart's flower lies. |
On the bank of Silver Lake we saw an Indian encampment. A shower threatened us, but we resolved to try if we could not visit it before it came on. We crossed a wide field on foot, and found them amid the trees on a shelving bank; just as we reached them the rain began to fall in torrents, with frequent thunder claps, and we had to take refuge in their lodges. These were very small, being for temporary use, and we crowded the occupants much, among whom were several sick, on the damp ground, or with only a ragged mat between them and it. But they showed all the gentle courtesy which marks them towards the stranger, who stands in any need; though it was obvious that the visit, which inconvenienced them, could only have been caused by the most impertinent curiosity, they made us as comfortable as their extreme poverty permitted. They seemed to think we would not like to touch them: a sick girl in the lodge where I was, persisted in moving so as to give me the dry place; a woman with the sweet melancholy eye of the race, kept off the children and wet dogs from even the hem of my garment.
