Winter: Monday Evening Poem by John Bowring

The night has thrown its shadows o'er the land,
And rest re-visits nature.-Evening's train,
With day's extinguish'd torches in their hand,
Have pass'd the twilight's western gates again.
On the damp hills the stars are glittering,
The mists are hanging round the forests deep,
While from their silver thrones the cold frosts fling
Their fetters o'er the vanquish'd earth-and keep
The streams in icy bondage. Happy he
Who to his bed of slumber can retire,
To rest in sweet and sound tranquillity;
While untormented by a vain desire,
Or a reproaching spirit, he may dwell
Securely and serenely.-To the good
The conscience is a fearless citadel,
Where nought of doubt or danger can intrude.
The darkness mantles him,-and till the hour
When sleep upon his eyelids sinks, he takes
Sweet counsel with that ever-present Power,
Who out of night His robes of brightness makes;
And from beyond this narrow-bounded vale,
Water'd by tears-by vapours curtain'd round-
And canopied in clouds-his thoughts can hail
That awful Majesty whose light is found
Descending and pervading the pure heart
That seeks His presence, while its cheering glow
A lustre and a smile of light impart
To all the shades of solitude and woe.


Though the earth tremble at Thy coming, Lord!
Thy children may approach Thee-may adore;
There is salvation, Father! in Thy word,
And Thy diffusive Spirit shining o'er
Earth's valley, makes earth cheerful. In its rays
We move rejoicing onwards-bent beneath
The burthen of our nothingness, we praise
And magnify Thy name. In life, in death,
Alike we see Thy glory. From Thy throne
Rivers of strength and life roll forth, that lave
All the created world.-On Thee alone
The world and all its tribes depend. The grave
Has for Thy love a tongue.-E'en as the night
Its starry garlands and its hymns-I hear,
I hear the voices of the sons of light,
Blending and circling round from sphere to sphere.
Each star a chord of music-a wave's flow
In the majestic sea of song that rolls
In ceaseless tides of harmony, which know
No rest-no discord. There departed souls
Join the eternal chorus. Thence they speak
To us poor pilgrims wandering still on earth-
They bid us soar above earth's vale-and seek
The country where our holier parts had birth,
And whither they are tending. Father! thither
My eager heart aspires-and when this scene
Fades round me-and its passing flowerets wither-
There let me rest rewarded and serene.