I hoped that with the brave and strong

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,

My portioned task might lie;

To toil amid the busy throng,

With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part,

And He has fixed it well;

I said so with my bleeding heart,

When first the anguish fell.

Thou,

God, hast taken our delight,

Our treasured hope away:

Thou bid'st us now weep through the

And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,

Can I but turn to Thee.

With secret labour to

In humble patience every blow;

To gather fortitude from pain,

And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,

Whate'er may be my written fate:

Whether thus early to depart,

Or yet a while to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,

More humbled I should be;

More wise—more strengthened for the strife—More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow:

But,

Lord! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now!

The last poem written by Anne Bronte.