LXI.
The same dear sun was shining yet,
Whose setting sheen, I’ll near forget,
When oft at eve, the hills among,
O’er the deep West I saw him hung,
Till stretch’d the woodland shadows brown,
And bright apparell’d, he went down.
’Twas sweet to think, so far away,
Of youth and its romantic day,
Of blue Owasco, and my joy