Eliza Acton

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Give me the loneliest spot on earth,
Where not a living step shall come;
And not a form of human birth
Shall break the quiet of my home.

There, canopied by Nature's sky
Unshelter'd be my breast, and brow;
There unremember'd let me die
Afar from all that wounds me now.

Oh! it were better far to be
A wand'rer on the desert thrown,
Than to pursue, thus weariedly,
The path of hopelessness alone.

My fetter'd spirit pants to break
The bitter bonds which bind it here;
And sense, and thought, and feeling ache,
To see how firm those bonds appear.

My birth-right was a dangerous boon,--
This high, unyielding pride of heart
Which will not be subdued:--as soon
From life shall sorrow dwell apart.

For in a world like this, where gold
Must win the sunshine of our way;
Where smiles are bought, and friendships sold,
I sink beneath its silent sway.

Oh! life's wild war will crush the mind
Which never yet has learned to bend,
In homage to its wealthier kind;
Nor made of pow'r a tyrant friend.

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Eliza Acton