Eliza Acton


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When the beautiful star of the West moves on,
A lonely gem, through the fields of air;
When the last faint flush of the sun-light's gone
And no beams but her own are shining there;
Steal through the shades of the twilight love!
The spell of that gentlest hour to prove.

It sinks on the spirit like some sweet balm,
Shed o'er us from brighter, and happier spheres;
And in suffering bosoms its touching calm
Awakens the source of delicious tears;
While dark and passionate thoughts, to rest
Are hush'd in the haughty, and erring breast.

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