John Bowring Poems

I hate that noisy drum!-It is a sound
That's full of war and bondage, and I blush
That liberty had ever cause to rush
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From time to time there is a warning voice
Which, in the various shapes of grief and pain
And disappointment, gives us hopes, not vain,
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A holy stillness fills the sky,
While evening tunes its vesper song,
And, like a sacred lamp, on high
The solitary moon is hung.
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Sing thy Creator's praise, and own
Him greatest-wisest-God alone;
He wraps himself in robes of light,
And, clothed in garments pure and bright,
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My eye look'd round upon the vast expanse
Of glorious Nature-and my raptured vision,
Revelling in the early day-beams' waken'd glance,
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Thou, Lord! art all in all-and man is nought:
For tho' in privileged hours his soaring thought
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Hours, days, weeks,-so our life-time flows-
Gently, as melt the vernal snows
Beneath the sun; they pass away,
Like dew-drops in the eye of day,
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As from the vapours of the east
The sun o'er morning's twilight steals,
So truth illumes the pious breast,
When man his inmost soul unveils:
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How shall I praise Thee, Lord of light?
How all thy generous love declare?
Though earth is veil'd in shades of night,
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Peace 'neath the stars may fix her seat,
And bliss look smiling from on high,
When spirits hold communion sweet
With brighter spirits of the sky.
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