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

 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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