Summer: Sunday Evening Poem by John Bowring

'Let not your hearts be troubled, but confide
'In me as ye confide in God; I go
'A mansion for my followers to provide;
'My Father's heavenly dwelling is supplied
'With many mansions;-I had told ye so,
'Were there not room;-I hasten to prepare
'Your seats,-and soon will come again, and say,
'Be welcome:-where your Lord inhabits, there,
'There should his followers be: ye know the way;
'I am the way, the truth, the life.'-'Twas thus
The Saviour spoke-and in that blessed road
What flow'rets grow, what sunbeams shine on us,
All glowing with the brightness of our God!
Heaven seems to open round, the earth is still,
As if to sanctify us for the skies;
All tending to the realms where blessing lies,
And joy and gladness, up the eternal hill.
As the heaven-guided prophet, when his eyes
Stretch'd wearied o'er the peaceful promised land,
Even as he stood on Canaan's shores, we stand.
O night! how beautiful thy golden dress,
On which so many stars like gems are strew'd;
So mild and modest in thy loveliness,
So bright, so glorious in thy solitude!
The soul soars upwards on its holy wings,
Thro' the vast ocean-paths of light sublime,
Visits a thousand yet unravell'd things;
And, if its memories look to earthly time
And earthly interests, 'tis as in a dream-
For earth and earthly things but shadows seem;
While heaven is substance, and eternity.
This is Thy temple, Lord! 'tis worthy Thee,
And in it Thou hast many a lamp suspended,
That dazzles not, but lights resplendently;
And there Thy court is-there Thy court, attended
By myriad, myriad messengers-the song
Of countless and melodious harps is heard,
Sweeter than rill, or stream, or vernal bird,
The dark and melancholy woods among.
And golden worlds in that wide temple glow,
And roll in brightness, in their orbits vast;
And there the future mingles with the past,
An unbeginning, an unending now.


Death! they may call thee what they will, but thou
Art lovely in my eyes-thy thoughts to me
No terror bring; but silence and repose,
And pleasing dreams, and soft serenity.
Thou wear'st a wreath where many a wild flower blows;
And breezes of the south play round thy throne;
And thou art visited by the calm bright moon;
And the gay spring her emerald mantle throws
Over thy bosom; every year renews
Thy grassy turf, while man beneath it sleeps;
Evening still bathes it with its gentle dews,
Which every morn day's glorious monarch sweeps
With his gay smile away: and so we lie,
Gather'd in the storehouse of mortality.
That storehouse overflows with heavenly seed;
And, planted by th' Eternal Husbandman,
Water'd and watch'd, it shall hereafter breed
A progeny of strength, no numbers can
Or reach or reckon. It shall people heaven;
Fill up the thrones of angels;-it shall found
A kingdom, knowing nor decay nor bound,
Built on the base by Gospel promise given.