Last Lines (Anne Brontë)

I have given the last memento of my sister Emily; this is the last of my sister Anne:

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 night 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 sustain 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!

These lines written, the desk was closed, the pen laid aside — forever.