Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour Should be, 'Peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore 1 '
��LXXVI
THE RACE WITH DEATH
O VENICE ! Venice ! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do? anything but weep: And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
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