Charlotte Turner Smith

Sonnet 43. The Unhappy Exile

The unhappy exile, whom his fates confine
   To 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 decline
In the broad shipless sea—perhaps may know
   Such heartless pain, such blank despair as mine;
And, if a flattering 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.