'd swore,
Here, on my knees that never knelt
To any but their God before, I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly—
Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh, Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither
Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea, East—west—alas, I care not whither,
So thou art safe, and I with thee ! Go where we will, this hand in mine,
Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
The world's a world of love for us ! On some calm blessed shore we'll dwell, Where 'tis no crime to love too well: Where thus to worship tenderly An erring child of light like thee, Will not be sin — or if it be, Where we may weep our faults away, Together kneeling, night and day; Thou for my sake at Alla's shrine, And I—at any god's for thine.
Moore.
Home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of p?ace, and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polished friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.
