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Charlotte Smith - Sonnet XLIII: The Unhappy Exile
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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.
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