Autumn: Saturday Evening Poem by John Bowring

The cold wind strips the yellow leaf,
The stars are twinkling faintly o'er us;
All nature wears her garb of grief;
While day's fair book is closed before us.


The songs have ceased,-and busy men
Are to their beds of silence creeping;
The pale, cold moon looks out again
On the tired world so softly sleeping.


O! in an hour so still as this,
From care, and toil, and tumult stealing,
I'll consecrate an hour to bliss-
To meek devotion's holy feeling;


And rise to Thee-to Thee, whose hand
Unroll'd the golden map of heaven;
Mantled with beauty all the land;
Gave light to morn and shade to even.


Being, whose all-pervading might
The laws of countless worlds disposes;
Yet gives the sparkling dews their light-
Their beauty to the blushing roses.


Thou, Ruler of our destiny!
With million gifts hast Thou supplied us,
Hidden from our view futurity,
Unveiling all the past to guide us.


Tho' dark may be earth's vale, and damp,
A thousand stars shine sweetly o'er us,
And immortality's pure lamp
Gladdens and gilds our path before us.


And in the silence of the scene
Sweet tones from heaven are softly speaking,
Celestial music breathes between,
The slumbering soul of bliss awaking.


Short is the darkest night, whose shade
Wraps nature's breast in clouds of sadness;
And joy's sweet flowers, that seem to fade,
Shall bloom anew in kindling gladness.


Death's darkness is more bright, to him
Who looks beyond in visions holy,
Than passion's fires, or splendour's dream,
Or all the glare of sin and folly.


The silent tear, the deep-fetch'd sigh,
Which virtue heaves in hours of quiet,
Are dearer than pomp's revelry,
Or the mad laugh of frenzied riot;


Smiles from a conscience purified,
Far lovelier than the fleeting glory
Conferr'd in all a monarch's pride,
Embalm'd in all the light of story.


This joy be ours-our weeks shall roll-
And let them roll-our bark is driven
Safe to its harbour-and our soul
Awaking, shall awake in heaven.