Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          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!