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Paused yet a little while below, Its beauty and its power to show. As if 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 scorch'd and riven, The gold it wins is gold from heaven. He watch'd, he soothed me day to day, How kindly words may never say: All angel ministering could be   That old man's succour was to me; I dwelt with him; for all in vain He urged me to return again And mix with life:—and months past on   Without a trace to mark them gone;