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Few, few, as yet, were these: and, when the sting
Had gone—by old proud thoughts again they strove
To thrust from memory all good forfeited;
And, in their new existence, find a joy
To balance loss of Heaven. For, from the first,

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Lost evermore they feared it; God incensed,
Inexorable for the eternity to come.
But, as the ages pass,—again, again,
The wholesome pangs are felt; and sharper still;
And longer-during the keen agony;
Till, even though hoping nought, a silent voice
Stirs in the spirit, and a prayer goes up:
A prayer, though supplication there be none
In act direct,—for, to offended God,
Prayer vain, they deem, as sure to be repulsed;—
Yet penitence is prayer: and, though unheard
By ear created, to the throne of heaven,
Distinct as on a thousand thunders borne,
Straightway ascends; and there is registered.