When, on our return-walk, gleam’d golden the west;
On the hill-brow we turn, the white village to view,
Its three modest steeples trac’d clear on the blue;
To the right Brownson’s pond—now we enter the wood:
Its echoes leap out to our frolicsome mood;
The sweet ringing laugh of gay Martha is heard,
And Kate trips along with the grace of a bird;
To the wind’s downy kisses bares Sarah her brow,
And Mary’s black eyes were ne’er brighter than now,
While one, grave and thoughtful, to each proffers aid,—