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 XIII. 
XIII. THE PAST.
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XIII. THE PAST.

October 10, 1875.
Not vain the faith and patience of the Saints!
Not vain, sad Isle, thy many-centuried woes!

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Thy day was tempest-cradled; but its close
Is splendour; and the shattered forest's plaints
In music die. No dull repining taints
That ether pure of memory's realm, which far
Recedes, like some long tract left waste by war,
Some tract which eve with peaceful purple paints.
Long time thy priests, my country, were thy poor:
The Cross their book they raised the Sacrifice
In ruined chancel, and on rainy moor:
Behold, the great reward is come! Arise,
Fane long desired! Beneath thy roofs of gold
Throne the new rites—the creed and worship old!