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There's one that pale beside thee stands, More true than all thy mountain bands! She will not shrink in doubt and dread, When the balls whistle round thy head: Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye No longer may to her's reply.

Oh! many a soft and quiet grace Hath faded from her form and face; And many a thought, the fitting guest Of woman's meek religious breast, Hath perished in her wanderings wide, Through the deep forests by thy side.

Yet, mournfully surviving all, A flower upon a ruin's wall, A friendless thing whose lot is cast, Of lovely ones to be the last; Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, Thine is her lone devotion still.