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SONG.

[With hair grown grey, we look behind]

With hair grown grey, we look behind
On passions whose wild reign is o'er—
Virtues, whose failure stings the mind,
And troubles that molest no more:
Slow pass'd the days of toil and care;
Yet, oh! how fast they seem to fly,
When we look back on our despair,
And call it hope, yet know not why.
And still they pass, and shade on shade
Deepens, their woe-mark path along;
But Thou, O God! art strong to aid;
Ay, and in Thee the weak are strong.