|
From “Irish Melodies”
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 ’t is not the same | 5 |
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 called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, | |
And thy Angel I ’ll be, mid the horrors of this, | 10 |
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, | |
And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too! |
No comments:
Post a Comment