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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 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 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 pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee-or perish there too!
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