Winter: Sunday Evening Poem by John Bowring

Sweetly is the sabbath fled,
Day of peace and rest to me;
'Let Thy name be hallowed.'
Now my spirit soars to Thee.
Darkness deep, or distance wide,
Cannot man from God divide.


O'er heaven's thousand burning lamps
Towers thy glorious palace high;
Thro' the evening's twilight damps,
O'er the morning's splendent sky,
From the orient to the west,
Thou art present, Mightiest!


Wisdom sees Thee shining brightly
In the starry worlds above;
Virtue hears Thee speaking nightly
From those orbs of light and love;
Smiling youth and hoary age
Praise Thee in their pilgrimage.


Wheresoe'er Thy name is known-
Every where-an altar stands
Raised to Thee, the Eternal One,
By devotion's holy hands;
Thou art an undying flame,
Shining thro' all time the same.


Piety, Thy favourite child,
Gently leads our hearts to Thee;
Virtue, like an angel mild,
Heralded by piety,
Guides us with her torches bright,
Thro' time's solitary night.


Hallow'd be Thy holy name,
Lord of spirits and of men;
Ne'er may virtue's sacred flame
Die within our souls again;
But conduct Thy pilgrims on
To Thy high and heavenly throne.


Be our journey short or long,
Yet we know not;-but we know,
Days and weeks and ages throng
Time's unintermitting flow;
And to-morrow, or to-day,
Shall our bark be swept away.


Roll, thou ever-flowing tide;
We, upon the billows driven,
O'er the mighty stream shall ride
To the peaceful port of heaven;
There no shipwrecks strew the shore,
There nor waves nor tempests roar.


Trim we then our little sail;
Calmly let us onward steer;
Blow, thou heaven-directing gale!
Ocean, waft the mariner!
See thy haven, see thy home;
Come, thou weary traveller, come!