John Bowring

(1792-1872 / England)

Autumn: Monday Morning - Poem by John Bowring

Waked by Thy sun, again my thoughts ascend
To Thee, my heavenly Father! and they blend
In one devotional hymn of praise and prayer.
All-present Being! now the morning air
Is calm, is fragrant with Thy spirit-bright
With the reflected influence of Thy light.
The trees are bending with Thy rich supplies;
It is Thy beauty-giving hand that dyes
The purple grape-that thro' the vales, the meads,
The many-colour'd flowers wide-blooming spreads;
Crimsons the downy peach,-and skirts the wood
With many a golden ridge,-and tips the flood
With radiance stolen from heaven; the praise be Thine,
Father, Creator, Leader, King Divine!
Eternal Source of joy! 'tis Thou dost bless
With all we hope for, all that we possess;
When the world sleeps in darkness, Thy pure eye
Looks sweetly out on its obscurity;
Until the awaken'd sun his standard rears,
And in his glorious crown of light appears
Rising o'er the orient mountains; life, renew'd,
Re-animates the busy multitude
That swarm upon earth's bosom.-Joy again
Waves her bright wing over the countless train
Of beings, whom heaven's never-sleeping eye
Watch'd thro' the night, and now to the energy
Of day recals.-I bow myself in dust,
And feel Thy awful hand sublime and just,
And own Thy hallow'd presence-for I see
O'er all, and in all, Thy benignity.
And I would kiss Thy rod-and to Thee fly,
As my best refuge: Thou art ever nigh,
E'en in the shades of earth-and brighter still,
Beyond the summit of that clouded hill
Which veils futurity.-Now hear my prayer,
And be Thy staff my guide, my steps Thy care;
Thy call I follow; summon where it may,
Thy hand shall guide-where'er it points the way,
Thy light illumine, and Thy Spirit cheer;
Thine influence, ever active, ever near,
Shall gild the smiling hour with brighter ray,
And give to darkness some sweet gleams of day;
Shall lead us gently thro' our pilgrimage,
And drop us safely in the lap of age;
And watch our bed of slumber,-and awake
From the grave's dreams, when the great morn shall break
Upon the realms of death-and waft us on,
Borne on faith's pinions, to the Eternal's throne.


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, September 21, 2010



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