Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/172

162 May torments strange or direst death

Nor trample truth, nor baffle faith.

Though such blood-drops should fall from me

As fell in old Gethsemane,

Welcome the anguish, so it gave

More strength to work—more skill to save.

And, oh! if brief must be my time,

If hostile hand or fatal clime

Cut short my course—still o'er my grave,

Lord, may thy harvest whitening wave.

So I the culture may begin,

Let others thrust the sickle in;

If but the seed will faster grow,

May my blood water what I sow!

What! have I ever trembling stood,

And feared to give to God that blood?

What! has the coward love of life

Made me shrink from the righteous strife?

Have human passions, human fears

Severed me from those Pioneers,

Whose task is to march first, and trace

Paths for the progress of our race?

It has been so; but grant me, Lord,

Now to stand steadfast by thy word!

Protected by salvation's helm,

Shielded by faith—with truth begirt,

To smile when trials seek to whelm

And stand 'mid testing fires unhurt!