Autumn: Wednesday Morning Poem by John Bowring

Extinguish'd is the last lone star,
The shadows of night are gone,
And lo! in the east, day's golden car
Is fill'd by the glorious sun.
And list! for a thousand voices call-
The spirits of life and love-
Attune your hymns to the Father of all,
The Sovereign who reigns above.


'Tis He who opens the eastern gates,
Who kindles the morning's ray;
'Tis He whose spirit all animates,
And the darkness and the day.
All the glories of the field are His,
All the music of the sky;
The light of hope, and the smile of bliss,
And nature's song of joy.


His temple is yon arch sublime,
Its pillars the eternal hills;
His chorus the solemn voice of time,
Which all creation fills.
His worshippers are the countless train
Which the lap of nature bears,
And the boisterous wind, and the raging main,
And the silence of the spheres.


He rides unseen on the hurrying storm,
He sits on the whirlwind's car;
He wraps in clouds His awful form,
And travels from star to star.
A thousand messengers wait His will,
A million heralds fly,
His glorious mandates to fulfil,
On the wing eternally.


He smiles-and worlds spring forth to birth,
And suns in new glory rise;
He frowns-and darkness clads the earth,
And mantles the frighted skies.
Dost thou think He speaks in the thunder's roar,
Or shines in the lightning's beam?
Vain man! no thought of thine can soar
To any conception of Him.


His strength nor perishing tongue can tell,
Nor immortal hymns rehearse;
'Tis high as the heaven, 'tis deep as hell,
And wide as the universe:
The ocean to Him is a dewdrop small,
The mountains an atom of sand;
And the sun and the stars, and this earthly ball,
Are dust in His mighty hand.


And O! can a Being so great as He
Bend down to the earth His ear?
Can children of clay, so frail as we,
In His awful presence appear?
O yes! to His throne even we may rise;
To us is His promise given,
For a broken heart is a sacrifice
Which will find its way to heaven.