Summer: Tuesday Evening Poem by John Bowring

To Thee, my God! to Thee I bring
The evening's grateful offering;
From Thee, the source of joy above,
Flow everlasting streams of love;
And all the rays of light that shine,
And bless creation, Lord! are Thine.


From the green valley, glad and gay,
Among whose flowers the zephyrs play,
Up to the azure hill, whose height
And distance bound the far-stretch'd sight,
Rearing its proud head silently,-
All, all is eloquent with Thee.


And from the little worm, whose light
Shines palely thro' the shades of night,
Up to the sparkling stars that run
Their evening rounds-or glorious sun,
Rolling his car to twilight's rest,-
All, all in Thee is bright and blest.


The morn, when stepping down the hills-
The noon, which all creation fills
With glory-evening's placid fall-
The twilight-and the raven pall
Of midnight-all alike proclaim
Thy great, Thine all-impressive name.


When in the darkness deep and dull,
The shining stars look beautiful;
When the blue heavens that we behold
Are sprinkled o'er with living gold,
And the calm breeze speaks whisperingly-
We hold communion, Lord! with Thee.


A thousand suns around us rise,
As bright as lamps of paradise;
While countless stars, commingling, play
In yonder devious milky way;
And the tall hills and valleys deep
Are wrapt in calm and solemn sleep.


And softly sink night's shades again
Upon the shifting tents of men;
And welcome is the evening hour,
And sweet the midnight's magic power,
Which thro' the silence of the air
Visits the heart, and triumphs there.


'Tis still, and darkness' mild control
Revives, renews the wearied soul;
Its mild, benignant influence
Strengthens again th' exhausted sense;
And when the morning twilight breaks,
A re-created man awakes.


On the green branch the slumb'ring bird
Broods calmly-in the woods is heard
Nor voice nor echo-silent all,
Except the untired waterfall,
That seems to glide more sweetly on,
Because its song is heard alone.


But over all-above, below,
We see Thee-ever-present Thou!
In every wand'ring rill that flows,
In every gentle breeze that blows,
In every rising, setting sun,
We trace Thee-own Thee-holy One!


Yes! in the mid-day's fervid beams,
And in the midnight's shadowy dreams,
In action and repose, we see,
We recognise and worship Thee;
To Thee our worthiest songs would give,
And in Thee die, and to Thee live.