It comes in desolation's hour
The barren landscape's face to cheer,
When none beside it dares appear.
Just like the friend, whose brightest smile
Is spared, our sorrows to beguile;
Who like some angel from the sky,
When needed most, is ever nigh—
To pluck vile slander's envious dart
From out the wounded, bleeding heart,
And raise from earth the drooping head