All these the wretch’s sorrows swell, he scents but may not see the flowers,
And darker grows the lonely gloom which broods o’er all his friendless hours.
II.
“Soft coos the plaintive dove, the waves in whispering throbs their music pour,
Each after each in cadence breaks, and dies in rippling on the shore;
The woods and winds their voices blend, no heed the cheerless captive pays;
No joy to him the sunbeam brings, which o’er the smiling meadow plays.
Unhappy outcast! not for thee does universal gladness reign,
These joys were all in mockery sent to wring thy breast with deadlier pain.
III.