ANNE BRONTË

O God! if this indeed be all That Life can show to me; If on my aching brow may fall No freshening dew from Thee; If with no brighter light than this The lamp of hope may glow, And I may only dream of bliss, And wake to weary woe; If friendship’s solace must decay, When other joys are gone, And love must keep so far away, While I go wandering on,— Wandering and toiling without gain, The slave of others’ will, With constant care and frequent pain, Despised, forgotten still; Grieving to look on vice and sin, Yet powerless to quell The silent current from within, The outward torrent’s swell; While all the good I would impart, The feelings I would share, Are driven backward to my heart, And turned to wormwood there; If clouds must ever keep from sight The glories of the Sun, And I must suffer Winter’s blight, Ere Summer is begun: If Life must be so full of care— Then call me soon to Thee; Or give me strength enough to bear My load of misery!

I was alone, for those I loved Were far away from me; The sun shone on the withered grass, The wind blew fresh and free. Was it the smile of early spring That made my bosom glow? ’Twas sweet; but neither sun nor wind Could cheer my spirit so. Was it some feeling of delight, All vague and undefined? No; ’twas a rapture sweet and strong, Expanding in the mind. Was it a sanguine view of life, And all its transient bliss, A hope of bright prosperity? Oh, no! it was not this. It was a glimpse of truth divine Unto my spirit given, Illumined by a ray of light That shone direct from heaven.