SONNET [43] XLIII.

THE unhappy exile, whom his fates confine
 To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle,
 Cold, barren, desert, 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 decline
 In the broad shipless sea — perhaps may know
 Such heartless pain, such blank despair as mine;
 And, if a flatt'ring cloud appears to show
 The 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.