Summer: Thursday Morning Poem by John Bowring

Come forth in thy purple robes again,
Thou brightest star of heaven!
Another day the Guardian of men
Has to his children given.
Receive the gift with gratitude;
My soul! to thy Maker ascend,
And bear thy songs to the Source of good,
To thy Father and thy Friend.


Bring Him thy morning tribute meet,
Devotion's offering;
How privileged to hold communion sweet
With thine and creation's King!
I look around,-a thousand things
Enjoy the sunny beam;
And nature her million voices brings
To form an anthem to Him.


O join the songs of the air, the grove,
And the chorus of the sea;
For, hark! the spirits of light above
Re-echo the harmony.
And see! ten thousand angels smile
Thro' the firmament's golden doors;
And from silver clouds, heaven's hand the while
Scatters our path with flowers.


The senses indeed must be dark and dull,
That in nature no charms can see;
For beauty's self is not more beautiful
To the eye of piety.
And deaf indeed is the clay-cold ear,
That no sounds of music greet;
Tho' nought as the music of praise and prayer
Is half so exquisite.


And why should man a distant bliss
So eagerly, fondly chase,
While the holy joys of a world like this
Invite his present embrace?
Are the unknown beings of yonder zone
More privileged than we?
Does a shorter year, or a brighter sun,
Imply felicity?


They may wander perchance in groves of palms,
And dwell in palaces bright;
They may breathe an air as sweet as balm,
And be clad in robes of light;
Yet there, as here, the fatal grave
Will o'er their possessions close;
And the more they hope, and the more they have,
The more they are destined to lose.


O let our portion content us then,
The portion which God has given;
For man is the fair earth's denizen,
And the heritor of heaven.
Above him are gorgeous, golden clouds,
That roll in glory afar;
And the night, which its bosom in darkness shrouds,
Is sprinkled with many a star.


And brighter and fairer than star or sun
Is the light that beams from on high;
A light which conducts its pilgrims on
To the shrine of eternal joy;
And thither our towering thoughts shall soar,
And there the tired spirit shall rest;
While hope bursts open the heavenly door
Of the mansions of the blest.