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     As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed,
     And all was still again,
Save a low murmur in the air
     Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
     A weary stranger came,
And stood before the farmer's door,
     With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope
     Was in his quiet glance,
And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed
     His tranquil countenance,—

A look, like that his Master wore
     In Pilate's council-hall:
It told of wrongs, but of a love
     Meekly forgiving all.

‘Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?’
     The stranger meekly said;
And, leaning on his oaken staff,
     The goodman's features read.

“My life is hunted,—evil men
     Are following in my track;
The traces of the torturer's whip
     Are on my aged back;

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