Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/171

Rh And be it mine to bid them raise

Their drooped heads to the kindling scene,

And know and hail the sunrise blaze

Which heralds Christ the Nazarene.

I know how Hell the veil will spread

Over their brows and filmy eyes,

And earthward crush the lifted head

That would look up and seek the skies;

I know what war the fiend will wage

Against that soldier of the cross,

Who comes to dare his demon-rage,

And work his kingdom shame and loss.

Yes, hard and terrible the toil

Of him who steps on foreign soil,

Resolved to plant the gospel vine,

Where tyrants rule and slaves repine;

Eager to lift Religion's light

Where thickest shades of mental night

Screen the false god and fiendish rite;

Reckless that missionary blood,

Shed in wild wilderness and wood,

Has left, upon the unblest air,

The man's deep moan—the martyr's prayer.

I know my lot—I only ask

Power to fulfil the glorious task;

Willing the spirit, may the flesh

Strength for the day receive afresh.

May burning sun or deadly wind

Prevail not o'er an earnest mind;