Summer: Saturday Morning Poem by John Bowring

The sand of another week has run,
All but its last and closing day;
And its few remnant moments soon
The common ruin will sweep away.
Time hurries, as the sparkling ray
That dances on the fleeting stream.
Is life a dream?-Ah, if a dream,
A dream of sad reality.
Whether we trace the days gone by,
Or to the cheating future look-
'Tis all a dark and gloomy book,
Which vice and folly, stubborn will,
And silent blanks, and sorrow fill.
And so we are driven-driven ever,
Down time's impetuous, wintry river.
One is unchanged-and He alone;
Th' Immutable-the glorious One!
His plans are never thwarted-He
For each his destined portion pours;
Drives these along the troubled sea,
Those lands upon the peaceful shores.
Who reads His mysteries?-Who can tell
The deep recesses of His plan?-
Who sees the great Invisible?
Who can unveil a God to man?
None!-but His love to each hath given
A holy visitant from heaven;
A guardian spirit from that sphere,
For an attending angel here;-
'Tis Virtue! and her kingdom stands
Firmly erected in the breast:
O see her lift her welcoming hands,
And call her children to her rest.
What fear they?-Ever onwards prest
From good to better, still improving-
Now their bright thoughts o'er Eden roving,
Now, in the midst of earthly night,
Stretching an anxious, eager eye
To realms of immortality;
And drinking in pure streams of light,
From the eternal fountains flowing;
Gifts of joy on all bestowing-
Wiping off the dewy tear
That drops upon the sufferer's cheek;
Smiling on the pure, the meek,
Like a heavenly comforter;
Thro' life's discords sweetly breathing
Music, soft as twilight hours;
With the thorny garland wreathing
Lilies, roses, fairest flowers;
Looking beautifully through
All the clouds of grief or scorn,
As the primrose thro' the dew,
Scatter'd by the hand of morn:
Now on pinions of the air-
Now on ocean-now on land,
Tracing the Almighty hand
All-directing, every where.
In the blue expanse above-
On earth's robe of green below
Strewing beauty, shedding love:
Stars that shine and flowers that blow,
Rills that musically flow,
Mountains that majestic rise,
Torches, altars, melodies-
All Thou lovest, leadest, lightest:
Thou, of all things holiest, brightest,
Greatest, best! Thy glorious praise
Thus I utter lowly, lonely:
Thou, my God, my Father only-
Thus to Thee I tune my lays!