< Page:The West Indies, and Other Poems.djvu
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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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