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 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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