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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 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!
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