Autumn: Friday Evening Poem by John Bowring

Father! Source of light and love!
Thou, whose throne of majesty,
Fix'd yon thousand suns above,
Gladdens all the earth with joy:
Mercy-streaming, promise-beaming,
Let Thy praise my soul employ.


What is man, that he should share
Goodness bright and blest as Thine?
What is man, that heavenly care,
Heavenly kindness, power divine,
Ever guiding, joy-betiding,
Should be his, and should be mine?


From this narrow vale of clay
Let me waft my thoughts to Thee;
Soar from night to heavenly day,
And in Thy benignity
Seek my pleasures-hoard my treasures:
Earth can be no home to me.


On Thy holy name I call;
At thy sacred footstool stand;
All sprung forth from good-and all
Tends to good beneath Thy hand:
Streams the purest, joys the surest,
Flow and smile at Thy command.


When the earth is clad in gloom,
And the dark clouds coldly frown,
Nature-like a wintry tomb
Wrapt in mists-its brightness gone,-
Lustre-shedding, pleasure-spreading,
Then Thy sun shines out alone.


Grey mists gather o'er the waves,
Dry leaves rustle in the rain,
Visions haunt the hilly graves,
And death's hour-glass turns again.
Solemn warning-night and morning,
To the careless crowds of men.


Know ye how, ye idle ones!
Sporting by the torrent's side,-
Know ye how existence runs
To the eternal ocean's tide,
Bliss alloying, hope destroying,
Scattering joy in ruins wide?


Careless wanderer, ne'er forget
All the dangers threatening o'er;
Do hope's dreams delude thee yet?
Soon they shall delude no more:
Hope is faithless, tired and breathless;
Oft 'tis wreck'd on sorrow's shore.


Hope, that builds its airy schemes
On time's transitory star,
Revels in delusive dreams,
Which an ignis fatuus are;
Ever smiling, and beguiling,
Still misleading pilgrims far.


But the hope, the faith, whose tower
Stands upon heaven's arches high,
Well-supported by the power
Of eternal prophecy,
Firm-erected, heaven-protected,
Never can in ruins lie.