"Come, Rest In This Bosom"
by Thomas Moore
Come, rest in this bosom, my own sticken dear!
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'er cast,
That the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torments, 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,
Still 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!