Summer: Wednesday Evening Poem by John Bowring

The day is past, night's gentle power renews
Its holy influence o'er created things;
The earth is bathed in evening's gentle dews,
And over man sleep waves its plumy wings.
So rolls life's day of brightness-and its eve
Comes softly stealing, when the pilgrim tires;
We rest upon earth's silent lap, and leave
Its busy cares, to sleep where slept our sires.
Lo! that sweet infant on its mother's breast!
The proud world smiles around him, glad and gay;
But soon that bosom will be sooth'd to rest-
And death shall sweep that laughing child away.
No place is crowded like the peopled tomb;
Death from his victories reposes never;
Each moment's pregnant with some mortal's doom,
And hearts are breaking-myriads mourning ever.


Thou God of life! thou Arbiter of death!
Thou wip'st the death-sweat from the cold pale brow,
Thou listenest to the last departing breath,
And linkest our hereafter to our now.
O let that now roll tranquilly along,
Gilded by that hereafter. Spirit of love!
Let Thy kind angels round my footsteps throng,
And point my hopes, my thoughts, my prayers above;
And in the bed of sickness-or the tomb
Of desolation, when my ashes rest-
There may these holy visitations come,
Ministering spirits from their regions blest.
And while I linger in this forest dark
Of mortal life, let my aspiring eye
Catch from the heavenly world one smiling spark
To light my onward pilgrimage on high.


Dull is the lightning to the meanest beam,
Which e'en from heaven's extremest bound is driven;
The sun is darkness, to one ray from Him
Who kindled all the fires of earth and heaven.
All-kind, all-holy Father! Thou, whose grace
Illumined every star that's hung in air;
Guardian of nature! Thou, whose glorious face
Is shadow'd forth in all that's bright or fair!
There are ten thousand blessed spirits that roam
O'er this dark world-and voices numberless-
We hear them, but we know not whence they come;
Ten thousand golden harps are strung, and bless
With their soft music the delighted ear-
It is from heaven, and heavenly is its tone-
'Holy!' they cry-those choirs of angels hear!
'Thrice holy One!' they sing, 'Thrice holy One!'