  Faithless as Saint Thomas, never Could I in the heaven believe Which both Jew and Priest endeavour To compel men to receive. That the angels, though, are real I have never held in doubt; Spotless, and of grace ideal, On this earth they move about. Still I doubt if such a being Wing’d is, it must be confess’d; I have recently been seeing Wingless angels, I protest. With their dear and loving glances With their loving hands so white Men they guard, and all advances Of misfortune put to flight. Every one can comfort borrow From their favour and regard; Most of all that child of sorrow Whom the people call a bard. |
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