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Over that pallid face were wrought The characters of painful thought; But on that lip, and in that eye, Were patience, faith, and piety. The hope that is not of this earth, The peace that has in pain its birth; As if, in the tumult of this life, Its sorrow, vanity, and strife, Had been but as the lightning's shock, Shedding rich ore upon the rock: Though in the trial scorched and riven, The gold it wins, is gold from heaven.

window of Walter Maynard's small and wretched chamber looked into a churchyard, the same on which he had gazed the night of his arrival in London. It was one of those dreary burial places, where nothing redeems the desolate aspect of mortality. The square,