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…

— Charlotte Smith
https://palimpseste.vercel.app/#text/dc171602-09ba-4aa6-8f8c-8ce1dec24de0
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