The Exile, A Sonnet
"G. H. T."
The European Magazine, LII (October, 1807), p. 310
Near yon old tow'r, long tottring in decay,
Where prostrate columns plough the mouldy steep,
Shaded by ivy from the scorching ray,
The melancholy Exile sits—to weep;
Who, as the screaming sea-bird o'er him flies,
Wheeling its way to Gallia's distant shore,
Low mutt'ring, views its flight, with hollow eyes,
To happy scenes, ne'er doom'd to visit more,
Poor wanderer! thy sorrows soon shall cease,
From future ills death thee alone can save,
Soon shall thy wounded spirit sink in peace,
Hush'd in the quiet slumber of the grave.
For ruin'd hopes on earth no cure is giv'n:
The soul, impatient, seeks repose in heav'n.