The lot is wretched, the condition sad, Whether a pining discontent survive, And thirst for change; or habit hath subdued The soul depressed; dejected--even to love Of her dull tasks and close captivity. My ear is pained, My soul is sick with every day's report Of wrong and outrage, with which this earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man.…
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