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.