Come, Rest In This Bosom
by Thomas Moore
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou has call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,
And thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this-
Through the furnace unshrinking, thy steps to
And shield thee, and save thee-or perish there too!