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Has given to prophet and to saint, All of least earthly art could paint! But never saw I such a brow As that which gazed upon me now;— It was an aged man, his hair Was white with time, perhaps with care; For over his pale face were wrought The characters of painful thought; But on that lip and in that eye Were patience, peace, and piety, The hope which was not of this earth, The peace which has in pangs its birth, As if in its last stage the mind, Like silver seven times refined In life's red furnace, all its clay, All its dross purified away,