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 has call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss, And thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this- Through the furnace unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee-or perish there too!
[if254 1]
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