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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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Thornton Hill (Alabama, United States) (1)

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