Spring: Friday Evening Poem by John Bowring

A holy stillness fills the sky,
While evening tunes its vesper song,
And, like a sacred lamp, on high
The solitary moon is hung.
Repose, upon her downy pinion,
Lights on the pilgrim's couch serene,
And holds her undisturb'd dominion
O'er the dark silence of the scene.
O then the spirit loves to turn
Upon its inward self; and then
Those hallow'd fires of virtue burn,
Which, born of heaven, ascend again
To their high source;-all worldly care,
All earth's pursuits and pleasures seem
Unworthy trifles, as they are,
Too grov'lling for the soul's esteem.
Then the Divinity within
Lights the freed soul, and heaven appears
Like some fair star, the clouds between
Soft smiling thro' the night of years.
Then with new life the spirit flies
Up to its primal, proud abode;
Reads all the secrets of the skies,
And holds high converse with its God.
O let me turn to heaven my eye-
Heaven is my portion, is my home-
And, steering onward joyfully,
Be welcomed by the harboring tomb.
Thus in serenest holiness
Let days and nights roll sweetly past;
And if a tear-a tear of peace-
Shall tremble in my eye at last;
Enough to think that I am Thine-
Enough for sorrow's darkest hour-
If I may call Thee, claim Thee mine-
God of my life! I ask no more.
Father! O let Thy light, Thy love,
Guard to his tomb Thy wanderer,
And when his spirit soars above,
Be all his errors buried here.