Charles Mackay (1814–1889)

ON Mamre’s plain, beside the Patriarch’s door,

The ministering angels sat; the world was young,

And men beheld what they behold no more;—

Ah, no! The harps of Heaven are not unstrung!

The angelic visitants may yet appear

To those who seek them! Lo! at Virtue’s side,

Its friend, its prop, its solace, and its guide,

Walks FAITH, with upturned eyes and voice of cheer,

A visible angel. Lo! at Sorrow’s call,

HOPE hastens down, an angel fair and kind,

And whispers comfort whatsoe’er befall;

While CHARITY, the seraph of the mind,

White-robed and pure, becomes each good man’s guest,

And makes this Earth a Heaven to all who love her best.