Thomas Moore

Patience lingers o'er the weedy shore, And, mutely waiting till the storm be o'er, Turns to young Hope, who still directs his eye To some blue spot, just breaking in the sky!

Self is the medium thro' which Judgment's ray Can seldom pass without being turned astray.

Just as the mind the erring sense believes, The erring mind, in turn, the sense deceives.

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.