The palm his monument, the rock his tower:
Th’ eternal torrent and the giant tree
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free.
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,