Autumn: Saturday Morning Poem by John Bowring

The sun comes forward in his purple robe
From the dark chambers of the tranquil night!
The smiles of morning gild the gladden'd globe,
And all the world is bath'd in liquid light.
Now love and pleasure sing their choral song;
And, springing to a renovated birth,
A thousand spirits of joy and music throng
The wide, magnificent expanse of earth;
As fresh, as if the intelligent former's hand
Had waked its earliest smile of bliss to-day;
Bright as if even now the enamell'd land
First sprung to being 'neath his living ray.
So rises nature from her nightly sleep,
Joyous,-till evening's dark'ning shades descend,
And then she sinks again in silence deep;-
Emblem of man! whose hurried footsteps tend
With daily impulse tow'rds the welcoming tomb.
Father! to Thee my eager spirit turns,
While joy and gratitude my path illume,
And with rekindled praise my bosom burns;
Mine eye looks far beyond the stars; I breathe
The breath of heaven; angels of peace, of light,
Wave their wings o'er me-and the vale of death
Is with Thy radiance beautiful and bright.


Yes! Father! all that's lovely is from Thee;
All that is pure and excellent is Thine.
Praise Him, thou morning sun of majesty!
Thou moon of midnight, in His glory shine!
Him worship, thou fair stream of life! adore
His name, thou sad machinery of decay!
Sing His high praise, ye planets shining o'er!
Ye worms of dust, come, join the general lay!
My soul shall speak Thy glory-hymn more sweet
Never inspired the lyre;-and never seer
Nor prophet sought a theme more pure, more meet,
And never pilgrim, saint, nor worshipper,
Found a sublimer thought to dwell upon:
Thy glory!-'tis a thought absorbing all-
E'en like the splendid, ever-radiant sun,
Scattering the mists that with the morning fall.


And thus let week on week roll swiftly by;
Each in its hurrying career must bring
Our spirits nearer to eternity;
And every moment in its course shall fling
Some mortal vestments down-until at last,
Hope smiling sweetly thro' the future hours,
And joyous memory gilding all the past,
The soul shall reach those amaranthine bowers
Which dawn upon the dreaming poet's eye;
And, resting there on immortality,
Drink in the stream of never-dying joy.