Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark —

                Where’er blows the welcome wind,

          It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

                More sad than those we leave behind.

          Each wave that passes seems to say,

                "Though death beneath our smile may be,

          Less cold we are, less false than they,

                Whose smiling wreck’d thy hopes and thee."

          Sail on, sail on — through endless space —

                Through calm — through tempest — stop no more:

          The stormiest sea’s a resting-place

                To him who leaves such hearts on shore.

          Or — if some desert land we meet,

                Where never yet false-hearted men

          Profaned a world, that else were sweet —

                Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.