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Come Rest in this Bosom

 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 hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'd be, 'mid the horrors of this, -- Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, -- or perish there too!

Poem by Thomas Moore
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