106 WIND-HARP SONGS.

Well-met, and not quite all an accident,

Though we were willing each should think as

much,

She capped the knoll as I the gap unrailed,

And subtle glamours all about us blent ;

That braid of tawny hair I longed to touch,

Yet loved the sweet half-fear that just pre

vailed.

SUNSET ON 7 HOPATCONG.

PLACID, softly shaded as a dove s breast,

A-tint with olive green where in it sink

Dark shadows of the hills along its brink,

As some gay bird is taken by its nest

The wide lake fills with all the painted West ;

All mingled stains and tender lights a-link,

Pale gold and flame ef rose and flush of pink,

Gleam there ere droop the purple plumes to rest.

Entranced, I see some red Nariticong

Dip paddle in those pools of sunset stain,

His wild dark eye, beneath his eagle plumes,

Smiling a little at the chanted song

His young squaw sings of happy hunting plain-

A savage dream, which all the West illumes.

The more we grow the more we become at peace

with the Universe, the more tolerantly we regard

the motives and motions of others, the more rest-

fully and contentedly we yield ourselves, to our

selves, the less we fear from laissez faire.