“Come, rest in this bosom”

Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

From “Irish Melodies”

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

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 ’t is not the same

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt ’s in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called 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 pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!