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 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
Thro’ joy and thro’ torment, thro’ 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, –
Thro’ the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, – or perish there too!

1. From “Irish Melodies”. 47. What the Bee Is to the Floweret
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 32
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 16
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 3. Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 74

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