Spring: Sunday Evening Poem by John Bowring

How shall I praise Thee, Lord of light?
How all thy generous love declare?
Though earth is veil'd in shades of night,
Thy heaven is open to my prayer;
That heaven, so bright with stars and suns-
That glorious heaven, which knows no bound;
Where the full tide of being runs,
And life and beauty glow around;
From thence-Thy seat of light divine,
Circled by thousand streams of bliss
Which calmly flow and brightly shine-
Say, to a world so mean as this,
Canst Thou direct Thy pitying eye?
How shall my thoughts expression find,
All lost in Thine immensity?
How shall I seek, Eternal Mind!
Thy holy presence? God sublime,
Whose power and wisdom, love and grace,
Are greater than the round of time,
And vaster than the bounds of space!


Gently the shades of night descend;
Thy temple, Lord! is calm and still;
A thousand lamps of ether blend,
A thousand fires that temple fill,
To honour Thee; 'tis bright and fair,
As if the very heavens, imprest
With Thy pure image smiling there,
In all their loveliest robes were drest.
Yet Thou canst turn Thy friendly eye
From that immeasurable throne;
Thou, smiling on humanity,
Dost claim earth's children for Thine own,
And gently, kindly lead them thro'
Life's varied scenes of joy and gloom;
Till evening's pale and pearly dew
Tips the green sod that decks their tomb.


Thou, Father! hast a gentle breath
That bears our soaring souls on high;
Thy angels watch the bed of death,
Thy torch directs us to the sky.
Thou bidst the cares of earth depart-
Heaven's peace is wafted from above;
A sabbath-stillness fills my heart-
Devotion's calm, and virtue's love.
Thy laws with rays divine illume;
Sweet is Thy call, Thy burthen light,
Thy words like heavenly music come,
Thy promise like a seraph bright.
And Thou, from Thy sublimest height
Of glory-in Thy mercy deignest
Earth-wandering pilgrims to invite
Tow'rds the blest palace where Thou reignest.
And man-a speck of dust-may rise,
Borne on the pinions of Thy grace,
Up to angelic mysteries:
Heaven is his home-his resting-place.


Even as the seed that autumn's breath
On to its destin'd dwelling bears,
Springs from its earthly tomb beneath,
And its fair crown of beauty rears;
Mortality itself contains
The germ of immortality,
And bursts life's cold and fettering chains,
Rising from mortal bondage free.
Not ours alone a varying doom,
Checker'd with fleeting joys and cares;
For us the portals of the tomb
Lead onwards to eternal years.


When trembling on the awful bourn
Which bounds life's transitory stage,
Tranquil my dying thoughts shall turn
Back on the well-spent pilgrimage:
While visions, robed in glory bright,
Beam thro' life's evening-shades serene,
From heaven's eternal isles of light;
What tho' the waters roll between?
The arm that oft hath saved, shall save;
Death has no terrors now for me-
Where is thy sting, O where? thou grave!
O death! where is thy victory?
Methinks I see the flow'rets bloom
Even now on Eden's vernal shore;
Methinks I feel the breezes come
To waft th' enfranchis'd prisoner o'er;
Methinks a light as soft as sweet
Smiles on me as the pale moon's ray;
Methinks I hear the angels greet,
'Come hither, Spirit, come!'-they say.
I hasten: as my eye grows dim
And darkens on this fading sphere,
I see the smiling seraphim
Wax more and more resplendent there;
And as my ear grows deaf and dull
To the vain sounds of earthly art,
The music, soft and beautiful,
Of heaven absorbs my raptur'd heart.