Autumn: Sunday Morning Poem by John Bowring

Of all the gifts conferr'd by heaven,
Time is the brightest-is the best;
Through time eternity is given;
By earthly labours-heavenly rest.


While days and weeks pass gently by,
How little do we deem that these
Are germs of immortality-
The buds of mightiest destinies!


Yet not too fondly let us trust
The flitting, fading morning's ray:
All earthly promises are dust;
All earthly pyramids are clay.


Time's visions are but treachery,
Soon wreck'd on dark oblivion's wave;
Its paths, however bright they be,
Lead to one common spot-the grave.


The grave may bound the views of some-
To me it is no boundary;
For the dull prison of the tomb
Is but the gate of life to me.


I will not seek my birthright here;
A few vile pageants-grasp them-they,
Tho' bright and shining they appear,
Melt into air, and pass away.


My hopes are higher, nobler far-
They are immortal, splendid, bright;
Pure, lofty as yon morning star,
That shines with clear and holy light.


My thoughts ascend above the earth,
And seek their primal, proud abode;
The country of their heavenly birth,
The land of peace, of joy, of God.


My mortal robes I'll cast aside,
And there be clad as angels are-
And with the sun in glory ride,
On his fire-girded, dazzling car,


Wherever joy or virtue is-
Farther than eye could e'er discern:-
Strange that a world so mean as this
Should e'er engage my chief concern.


Strange! that these fleeting, fading forms,
Which Heaven has named immortal men,
Rising from dust like reptile worms,
So turn to vilest dust again.


Strange! that this nobly-fashion'd mould,
In which a very god might dwell,
Should only live to dig for gold-
And perish in its narrow cell.


Strange! when that shining, shifting ore
Is but delusive, dazzling clay-
A shell men grasp-and grasp no more,
E'en while they throw the pearl away.


A higher destiny is mine,
And brighter hopes, and holier cares;
Thoughts stretching on to joys divine;
Hours pregnant with eternal years!