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[33] Sadly, as the shades of even
     Gathered o'er the hill,
While the western half of heaven
     Blushed with sunset still,
From the fountain's mossy seat
     Turned the Indian's weary feet.

Year on year hath flown forever,
     But he came no more
To the hillside on the river
     Where he came before.
But the villager can tell
     Of that strange man's visit well.

And the merry children, laden
     With their fruits or flowers,—
Roving boy and laughing maiden,
     In their school-day hours,
Love the simple tale to tell
     Of the Indian and his well.

1837.

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1837 AD (1)
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