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. 3. Though the Ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert shall surround me, It hath springs that may be won. 4. Were't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'T is to thee that I would drink. 5. 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.[74] July, 1817. [First published, _Waltz_, London, W. Benbow, 1821, p. 29.] FOOTNOTES: [74] ["This should have been written fifteen months ago; the first stanza was."--Letter to Moore, July 10, 1817.] EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI.[75] DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, Which is a good one in its way,-- Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels With tears, that, in a flux of grief, Afford hysterical relief To shattered nerves and quickened pulses, Which your catastrophe convulses. I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for Scenery! 10 Your dialogue is apt and smart; The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and every body dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see: And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, 20 But--and I grieve to speak it--plays Are drugs--mere drugs, Sir--now-a-days. I had a heavy loss by _Manuel_--[76] Too lucky if it prove not annual,-- And Sotheby, with his _Orestes_,[77] (Which, by the way, the old Bore's best is), Has lain so very long on hand, That I despair of all demand; I've advertised, but see my books, Or only watch my Shopman's looks;-- 30 Still _Ivan_, _Ina_,[78] and such lumber, My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. There's Byron too, who once did better, Has sent me, folded in a letter, A sort of--it's no more a drama Than _Darnley_, _Ivan_, or _Kehama_; So altered since last year his pen is, I think he's lost his wits at Venice. * * * * * * * * * *