Chapter 14
Section 14 Come, Rest in This Bosom by Thomas Moore Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Lawley Come, rest in this bosom, come, rest in this bosom, My own stricken dear, 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, Or 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, But I know that I love thee,
Whatever thou art, Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss And thy angel are be through the horrors of this Through the furnace unshrinking Thy steps to pursue
And shield thee and save thee Or perish thereto End of poem This recording is in the public domain
