Exile, An
I AM an exile, in disgrace,
And sorrow banished from her face:
Now some such woe as mine, I ween,
Napoleon knew at Saint Helene.
I am an exile, fettered, ta'en
To deserts drear of her disdain;
Will pity ne'er her bosom stir
For my high crime of loving her?
And sorrow banished from her face:
Now some such woe as mine, I ween,
Napoleon knew at Saint Helene.
I am an exile, fettered, ta'en
To deserts drear of her disdain;
Will pity ne'er her bosom stir
For my high crime of loving her?
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