This afternoon, driving about on the banks of these lakes, we found the scene all of one kind of loveliness; wide, graceful woods, and then these fine sheets of water, with, fine points of land jutting out boldly into them.  It was lovely, but not striking or peculiar.

All woods suggest pictures.  The European forest, with its long glades and green, sunny dells, naturally suggested the figures of armed knight on his proud steed, or maiden, decked in gold and pearl, pricking along them on a snow-white palfrey; the green dells, of weary Palmer sleeping there beside the spring with his head upon his wallet.  Our minds, familiar with such, figures, people with them the New England woods, wherever the sunlight falls down a longer than usual cart-track, wherever a cleared spot has lain still enough for the trees to look friendly, with their exposed sides cultivated by the light, and the grass to look velvet warm, and be embroidered with flowers.  These Western woods suggest a different kind of ballad.  The Indian legends have often an air of the wildest solitude, as has the one Mr. Lowell has put into verse in his late volume.  But I did not see those wild woods; only such as suggest to me little romances of love and sorrow, like this:—­

GUNHILDA.

  A maiden sat beneath the tree,
  Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
  And she sigheth heavily.

  From forth the wood into the light
  A hunter strides, with carol light,
  And a glance so bold and bright.

  He careless stopped and eyed the maid;
  “Why weepest thou?” he gently said;
  “I love thee well; be not afraid.”

  He takes her hand, and leads her on;
  She should have waited there alone,
  For he was not her chosen one.

  He leans her head upon his breast,
  She knew ’t was not her home of rest,
  But ah! she had been sore distrest.

  The sacred stars looked sadly down;
  The parting moon appeared to frown,
  To see thus dimmed the diamond crown.

  Then from the thicket starts a deer,
  The huntsman, seizing on his spear,
  Cries, “Maiden, wait thou for me here.”

  She sees him vanish into night,
  She starts from sleep in deep affright,
  For it was not her own true knight.

  Though but in dream Gunhilda failed. 
  Though but a fancied ill assailed,
  Though she but fancied fault bewailed,—­

  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.