Spring: Monday Morning Poem by John Bowring

Thou, Lord! art all in all-and man is nought:
For tho' in privileged hours his soaring thought
Would seem to catch a glance of Thee-Thy light
Soon becomes dazzling, and he sinks in night.
Yes! we are blind-and when we most aspire,
Most feel our weakness and our vain desire.
We trace the comets in their orbits-fly
From star to star, across the crowded sky,
And, far beyond what natural powers discern,
Guided by art, we nature's mysteries learn:
But when we think of Thee-confounded, lost,
From one proud billow to another tost,
Our reason wreck'd-the horizon shaded o'er,
We dash upon a dark and dangerous shore.


What art Thou, Lord? By what high name, what word
Of majesty, shall we address Thee, Lord?
God! awful sound-recess of mystery!
God! what strange notions of infinity,
Infinity of wisdom, power, and love,
Thro' the still'd heart in shadowy visions move-
Link'd with all space, all being, deep and vast:
'Tis a vague sense of future and of past-
Of things beyond the stars-of death-of birth-
Of a wing'd Spirit wandering o'er the earth-
Travelling from sun to sun-of whispering wind-
Of thunder-of a more than mortal mind,
That sometimes visits man:-a rolling flood
Invisible-an infinite tide of good,
O'erflowing all-a presence in the air,
Upon the land, the waters, every where!
God! God! word written on the waves-imprest
Upon fair Nature's universal breast,-
Wafted by every breeze, and borne along
By every motion that has sense or song-
Splendent above and beautiful below,
The soul of all the universe art Thou!


We find Thee there-we revel in the thought-
Forgive the daring, Lord! we know Thee not.
When man hath scaled the heavens, and weigh'd the sun,
And visited the stars-then, Infinite One!
Then may he, then, tho' still unworthily,
Lift up his thoughts and turn his eyes to Thee;
To Thee, whose glorious brightness human eye
Ne'er gazed on yet in its intensity.
O God! I tremble when on Thee I think;
I feel as if I shudder'd on the brink
Of profanation-yet I love Thee:-read
My doubting, fearing heart-it loves indeed!
Loves, and would fain obey-O touch the chord
That vibrates at Thy name,-and tune it, Lord!
To reverence and to virtue:-all beside-
The vain desires of folly or of pride-
All, all I throw, an offering at Thy feet-
Accept that homage, Being Infinite!