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Till, dipped behind yon purple wall,
He left them, one by one.
A lady, who, from Thornton hill,
Had held her place outside,
And, as a pleasant woman will,
Had cheered the long, dull ride,
Besought me, with so sweet a smile,
That—though I hate delays—
I could not choose but rest awhile,—
(These women have such ways!)
On yonder mossy ledge she sat,
Her sketch upon her knees,
A stray brown lock beneath her hat
Unrolling in the breeze;
Her sweet face, in the sunset light
Upraised and glorified,—
I never saw a prettier sight
In all my mountain ride.
As good as fair; it seemed her joy
To comfort and to give;
My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy,
Will bless her while they live! “
The tremor in the driver's tone
His manhood did not shame:
‘I dare say, sir, you may have known’ —
He named a well-known name.
Then sank the pyramidal mounds,
The blue lake fled away;
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