Come, Rest In This Bosom, My Own Stricken Deer, Tho' 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 Thro' Joy And Thro' Torment, Thro' 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,-- Thro' The Furnace, Unshrinking, Thy Steps To Pursue, And Shield Thee, And Save Thee,--Or Perish There Too!