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:

[Page 81]

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.

ACTON. Anne Brontë (1820-1849)