How sad the exile from his native skies
Doom'd on the shade of parted bliss to dwell--
No ear to catch his penitential sighs,
No voice to soothe him in his last farewell.
Anxious he treads th' inhospitable shore,
And gazes anxious on the main
Where ling'ring fancy loves to feign
Till day's last lustre bids her wake no more;
Then horror climbs the dusky wave,
And beckons madness to her grave,
Where, cradled by the surge to rest,
Low sighs the passing gale, "Despair is blest."
Ah! sadder far an exile from thy charms;
Friends, Country, Freedom, smile in Myra's arms.