Weren't the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea: But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee!

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning.

Thou who hast The fatal gist of beauty.