Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume II. Love. 1904. | | | | VII. Love’s Power | | “Come, rest in this bosom” | | Thomas Moore (1779–1852) |
| | 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. | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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! | | | | |
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