Poems (Carmichael)/Faith

by Sarah Elizabeth Carmichael

For works with similar titles, see Faith.

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.
And lines of pain from his face would fade;
 His eyes would fill with an eager thought;
And his paling lips would part, to breathe
 Some low child-prayer that his mother taught.

And then, away to the cheerless home
 Where age and indigence toiled for bread,
Where the widow's eyes looked wildly down
 On the dear, dear ones! that must be fed;
And, oh! if the niggard wage should fail!
 "What shall I do, if they pay me not?"—
The angel visitor calmly smiled,
 And, softly whispering, told her what!
Her pale cheek flushed with a sudden start,
 Though the tear-drops gleamed there all the while;
The angel passed, but the widow's heart
 Mirrored forever her holy smile.

And still the garments around her flung
 Were stainless from the touch of clay;
And still the smile that her pure lip bore
 Beautiful shone as the early day!
And would you see her, the angel, Faith?—
 When life seems dark to your tear-dimm'd eyes,
Ye may catch a glimpse of her snow-white hand.
 Pointing aloft to the far, bright skies.