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THE HERMIT'S GRAVE.
BY L. E. L.
The days are gone when pilgrims knelt
By sacred spot or shrine,
The cells where saints have lived or died
No more are held divine.
The bough of palm, the scallop-shell,
Are signs of faith no more;
The common grave is holy held,
As that on Salem's shore.
Yet, when I knew that human knee
Had worn the rock away,
And that here, even at my feet,
Earth hid the righteous clay;
