Page:The West Indies, and Other Poems.djvu/129

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117

For every furrow of old age
Shall be a line of grace.

Start not; old age is Virtue's prime;
Most lovely she appears,
Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time,
Down in the vale of years.

Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,
The eternal mountains rise;
Virtue descends not to the tomb,
Her rest is in the skies.

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