Come to my heart, thou stricken deer!

Come to my heart, thou stricken deer!
The world has aimed its shaft at thee;
There is a welcome shelter here,
There are no enemies with me.
Thou art too fair and delicate,
To bide the cold and pelting storm:
O, fly the world, that can but hate
The brighter cheek and fairer form.

Fly to my heart, thou mourning dove!
And seek a refuge in my nest;
I'll fold around my wings of love,
And hush thy beating pulse to rest.
I heard the death-shot in the wood,
I saw the fowler clip thy wing;
Thy ruffled wings are dropped with blood,
But here no foe a dart shall bring.

Come to my home, thou bleeding heart!
And trust thy woes to me alone;
For thou mayst all thy griefs impart,
And I will take them as my own.
I have a healing balm for thee,
To stanch thy blood, and soothe thy pain;
For kindly touched by sympathy,
Thy wound shall never bleed again.

The world may scorn thee, if they please,
But I will dare to love thee still;
Beneath these darkly sheltering trees,
I'll guard thee safe from every ill.
For I have found thee kind and true,
A tender heart, a melting soul,
And still I see thine eye of blue
As brightly and as purely roll.
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