Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Last Lines, I hope that withAnne Brontë (18191849)
I
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high;
And He has fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.
Our treasured hope away:
Thou bidst us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.
These days of misery,
These nights of darkness, anguish-tossed,—
Can I but turn to Thee:
In humble patience every blow,
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.
Whate’er may be my written fate:
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
More humbled I should be,
More wise,—more strengthened for the strife,—
More apt to lean on Thee:
Thus should I keep my vow:
But, Lord! whatever be my fate,
O let me serve Thee now!