Summer: Wednesday Morning Poem by John Bowring

Father! at whose awakening nod
The early day-break gilds the hills;
'Tis Thine almighty mandate, God!
Which mountain, valley, sea and sod,
With light and joy and glory fills.


To Thee my spirit fain would soar,
To Thee my trusting eye would look,
In holiest confidence adore,
And read with sweetest pleasure o'er
Nature's impressive, varied book.


'Tis Thy benignant hand that sheds
Its light, its wisdom thro' our breast;
And, like a gentle shepherd, leads
Thy wandering flocks thro' fruitful meads,
To the calm fold of peace and rest.


The peace which earth hath never given,
The pure, self-sacrificing love,
The joy which flows alone from heaven,
The silent bliss, like summer's even,
The hope which has its shrine above;-


All these, and more than these, are Thine!
The truth, which has its source in Thee,
Who art all truth! the strength divine
Of virtue, and the golden mine
Of dignified humanity.


These are Thy gifts; and these shall be
My pure, habitual offering;
Accept, great God of purity!
Accept, forgive benignantly,
The imperfect tribute that I bring.


Lord! when I seek Thy face, I feel
I am but dust-the sprinkled dew
Of morning,-but the tow'ring will
That soars to heaven, is heavenly still-
And man, tho' clay, is spirit too.


Yes! I can feel that, tho' a clod
Of the dark vale, there is a sense
Of better things-the fit abode
Of something tending up to God-
A germ of pure intelligence.


I know not how th' Eternal hand
Has moulded man-but this I know,
That while 'midst earth's strange scenes I stand,
Bright visions of a better land
Go with me still, where'er I go.


And surely dreams so pure, so sweet,
Friendly to hope and joy and worth,
Are not the phantoms of deceit,
Delusions sent to blind, to cheat
The weary, wand'ring sons of earth.


No! no such dazzling errors these,
As when, in Zara's deserts vast,
The exhausted, panting traveller sees
Bright lakes, that mock his miseries,
And prove but burning sands at last.


If in the breast of man there be
(And sure as he exists there is)
The seed of immortality,
Who bids it grow there? Who, but He
Who destined him to endless bliss.


My God! we are Thine offspring-time
Is but our infancy-the earth
Our cradle-but our
home's
a clime
Eternal, sorrowless, sublime-
Heaven is the country of our birth!