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Poem by Thomas Moore


From Irish Melodies. 69. Come, Rest in This Bosom


Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Tho the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can oercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if tis not the same
Thro joy and thro torment, thro glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilts 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 Ill be, mid the horrors of this, 
Thro the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,  or perish there too!



Thomas Moore


Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. TotheFire‑Fly
  2. Bright Be Thy Dreams
  3. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
  4. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 49
  5. From Irish Melodies. 57. Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own


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