XVII.
But doth the exile’s heart serenely there
In sunshine dwell?—Ah! when was exile blest?
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air,
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest?
—There is a heart-sick weariness of mood,
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow,
And shrines itself in mental solitude,
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe.
That coldly smiles midst pleasure’s brightest ray,
As the chill glacier’s peak reflects the flush of day.