Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

But wondrous is thy might,
To make the wretched soul rejoice,
To give the simple light!
And still to all that seek thy way
This magic power is given, —
E'en while their footsteps press the clay,
Their souls ascend to heaven.

Danger surrounds them, – pain and woe
Their portion here must be,
But only they that trust thee know
What comfort dwells with thee;
Strength to sustain their drooping pow'rs,
And vigour to defend, —
Thou pole-star of my darkest hours
Affliction's firmest friend!

Day does not always mark our way,
Night's shadows oft appal,
But lead me, and I cannot stray, —
Hold me, I shall not fall;
Sustain me, I shall never faint,
How rough soe'er may be
My upward road, – nor moan, nor plaint
Shall mar my trust in thee.

Narrow the path by which we go,
And oft it turns aside
From pleasant meads where roses blow,
And peaceful waters glide;
Where flowery turf lies green and soft,
And gentle gales are sweet,
To where dark mountains frown aloft,
Hard rocks distress the feet, —

Deserts beyond lie bleak and bare,
And keen winds round us blow;
But if thy hand conducts me there,
The way is right, I know.
I have no wish to turn away;
My spirit does not quail, —
How can it while I hear thee say,
"Press forward and prevail!"

Even above the tempest's swell
I hear thy voice of love, —
Of hope and peace, I hear thee tell,
And that blest home above;
Through pain and death I can rejoice.
If but thy strength be mine, —
Earth hath no music like thy voice,
Life owns no joy like thine!

Spirit of Faith, I'll go with thee!
Thou, if I hold thee fast,
Wilt guide, defend, and strengthen me,
And bear me home at last;

By thy help all things I can do,
In thy strength all things bear, —
Teach me, for thou art just and true,
Smile on me, thou art fair!

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.