FAITH.
An angel came from her far, bright home,
Wrapped in the robes that moonbeams wear;
Her hand was white as the lily leaves,
The light of her eye was the soul of prayer:
She ever smiled, but her sweet lips wore
A strange expression that was not mirth;
A pleading beauty that seemed to draw
The gazer's heart from the thoughts of earth.
And much they wondered, who saw her pass,
That her shining sandal never bore
A stain from the sod it lightly trod—
That dust clung not to the robe she wore.
'T was strange!—she flashed like a gleam of light
Through the drear abode of shame and woe,
To lay her hand on the outcast's brow,
And breathe in his ear a whisper low.
Through the drear abode of shame and woe,
To lay her hand on the outcast's brow,
And breathe in his ear a whisper low.
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