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From the western slope, a still more extensive prospect opened before us. Over ridges covered with forests of oak and pine, we saw the valley of the Pursek, the ancient Thymbrius, stretching far away to the misty line of Keshish Dagh, The mountains behind Kintahya loomed up high and grand, making a fine feature in the middle distance.
Mirth the halls of Troy was filling, Ere its lofty ramparts fell; From the golden lute so thrilling Hymns of joy were heard to swell. From the sad and tearful slaughter All had laid their arms aside, For Pelides Priam's daughter Claimed then as his own fair bride. Laurel branches with them bearing, Troop on troop in bright array To the temples were repairing, Owning Thymbrius' sovereign sway.
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