---

Thomas Moore - Come, Rest in this Bosom
Work rating: Medium

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 `tis 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 call`d me thy angel in moments of bliss, 
And thy Angel I`d be, `mid the horrors of this, — 
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, 
And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too!
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.