contents | previous | next To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle, Cold, barren, desart, where no harvest 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 a 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. |
