John Bowring Poems

The sand of another week has run,
All but its last and closing day;
And its few remnant moments soon
The common ruin will sweep away.
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'Let not your hearts be troubled, but confide
'In me as ye confide in God; I go
'A mansion for my followers to provide;
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Thou art my glory-Thou my song, whose throne
Is built upon the highest heavens-and thence
Rollest the spheres by Thine omnipotence-
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Calm is the eve, and nature's wasting strength
Is, by the gentle influence of repose,
Repair'd, rekindled;-with the morning's dawn,
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Come forth in thy purple robes again,
Thou brightest star of heaven!
Another day the Guardian of men
Has to his children given.
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To Thee, my God! to Thee I bring
The evening's grateful offering;
From Thee, the source of joy above,
Flow everlasting streams of love;
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How wisely is the stream of life controll'd
In its mild course-exhausted, and renew'd;
When toiling day its hurried tide has roll'd,
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The day is past, night's gentle power renews
Its holy influence o'er created things;
The earth is bathed in evening's gentle dews,
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Father! at whose awakening nod
The early day-break gilds the hills;
'Tis Thine almighty mandate, God!
Which mountain, valley, sea and sod,
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O what a strange, a fearful strife,
When desolation's wintry breath
Disturbs the calm of peace-of life-
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