Spring: Saturday Morning Poem by John Bowring

As from the vapours of the east
The sun o'er morning's twilight steals,
So truth illumes the pious breast,
When man his inmost soul unveils:
When the still monitor within
Holds meet communion with his heart,
And self-approval gilds the scene,
As hours and days and weeks depart.


How wise, departing weeks to call
To stern inquiry's solemn bar,
And take a strict account of all!
For all in heaven recorded are:
The talents lost-the moments run
To waste-the sins of act, of thought,
Ten thousand deeds of folly done,
And countless virtues cherished not.


A towering spirit, born of heaven,
And tending up to heaven again,
By earthly cares and errors driven,
And chain'd to all those errors vain;
A temple worthy of a God,
Degraded to an earth-worm's cell;
A soul sublime-become a clod,
Dark, heavy and insensible.


Can such a reckoning then appal,
To the heart's secret inquest given?
How dreadful-if unveil'd to all
Th' assembled hosts of earth and heaven!
Deceive thee not, vain man! for so
Shall time thy inmost self declare,
And the great day of days shall show
Each vice thou wrapp'st so fondly here.


Delusion! rend the shading veil;
Hypocrisy! come forth-and, pride!
Thy naked form no more conceal;
Come, fierce intolerance! nor hide
Thy serpent-sting in folds of zeal,
In pious words thy tiger-tooth!
Come forth, ye long-mask'd fiends! and feel
The all-discovering touch of truth.


How many fancied saints, that wear
Self-gratulation's starry dress,
Shall stand unrobed-astonish'd there,
In trembling, tottering nakedness!
How many a humble one, whose eye
Scarce dares look up to heaven's bright throne,
Shall bear the robes of majesty,
And put the golden garland on!