Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

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!

Wedded to home—I home forsake;

Fearful of change—I changes make;

Too fond of ease—I plunge in toil;

Lover of calm—I seek turmoil