by Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)
Translation by Miguel Antonio Caro (1845 - 1909)

Come, rest in this bosom
Language: English 
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 't is 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 hast called 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!

Confirmed with The World's Best Poetry, ed. by Bliss Carman, et al. Philadelphia: John D. Morris & Co., 1904; Bartleby.com, 2012. www.bartleby.com/360/2/237.html


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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2015-09-30
Line count: 12
Word count: 125

¡Oh, vén!
Language: Spanish (Español)  after the English 
¡Oh, vén! en el seno mío
Vén á reposar tus sienes;
Si ya rebaño no tienes,
 Aquí tus lares están. 
Aquí una sonrisa encuentras 
Que no empaña nublo insano;
Y un corazón y una mano
 Que jamás te faltarán.
¿De qué el amor serviría
Si no brillase lo mismo
Sobre el espantoso abismo
 Que en el mágico pensil?
No sé yo, saber no quiero,
Si es tu corazón culpado;
Sé que eres mi único amado,
 Yo tu amante veces mil.
Angel tuyo me llamaste
En momentos de ventura;
Quiero en horas de amargura
Como ángel guiar tu pie.

Entre tanto horror no temas
Que jamás de ti me aparte;
¡Vengo á escudarte, á salvarte,
 O contigo me hundiré!

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Researcher for this page: Andrew Schneider [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website: 2019-05-07
Line count: 24
Word count: 119