Sonnet XLIII: The Unhappy Exile
The unhappy exile, whom his fates confineTo the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle,Cold, barren, desart, where no harvests smile,But thirst and hunger on the rocks repine;When, from some promontory's fearful brow,Sun after sun he hopeless sees declineIn the broad shipless sea—perhaps may knowSuch heartless pain, such blank despair as mine;And, if a flattering cloud appears to showThe fancied semblance of a distant sail,Then melts away—anew his spirits fail,While the lost hope but aggravates his woe!Ah! so for me delusive Fancy toils,Then, from contrasted truth—my feeble soul recoils.
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