Autumn: Thursday Evening: The Presence Of God Poem by John Bowring

Where'er I turn my restless eye,
Wand'ring from earth to heaven, from sphere to sphere,
Great God! I feel Thy present Deity,
Every where feel Thee-Thou art every where.
Yes! Thou art there-above th' empyreum high,
Veiled all in light:
Filling creation with Thy presence bright,
With the proud splendour of Thy majesty.
The little flower that grows
Beneath me; the gigantic mountain steep,
Whose brow is covered with eternal snows,
Whose roots are planted in the deep;
The breeze that murmuring blows
Among the green leaves, rustling in the sun;
And yonder glorious star, advancing on,
Gladd'ning earth, heaven, and all things as he goes;
These tell me that 'tis Thou
Who giv'st that sun his brightness-Thou whose wing,
Upon the rapid whirlwind journeying,
From the Aurora to the West doth go;
And that the mountain's towering height
Is Thy majestic throne;
And that the flower which breathes and blooms alone,
Breathes, blooms in Thy pure sight.
'Tis Thine immensity
Which compasses all this, and more; confest,
As in the greatest,-in the least;
Atom-or comet blazing thro' the sky:
Thine is the circling robe
Of darkness-Thine the subtle veil
Of the opening morning pale,
When first she throws her glories o'er the globe.
And when the spring descends
On the wide world, and decks her joyous bowers,
Thou smilest gently in her loveliest flowers:
Thy spirit with their sweetest odours blends.
When the red Sirius bears
His burning ardours thro' the summer hour,
Thy breezes play among the swelling ears,
And calm and temper his too furious power.
I seek the leafy shade,
And Thou art there;-among the welcoming trees
I feel Thy visitings in the freshen'd breeze;
My spirit rests-my cares, my sorrows fade.


Then a religious fear
Troubles my bosom-and I hear a sound:
'Humbly adore Him here,
In this mysterious solitude profound.'
Thou art upon the mighty waves
Of the deep sea; and Thou dost bind
The bursting fury of the wind-
Or let it loose, when the wild tempest raves.
Where'er I go, where'er I turn,
I see Thee, feel Thee!-in the flowery mead,
As in the starry field above our head,
Where such unnumber'd torches burn.
Thou art the God of atoms-as of suns!
Of the poor, perishing worm
That in the dust the eye of mortals shuns;
Or angels pure, who veil their dazzled form
Before Thee!-Thou dost hear the hymn
Of this Thy lowly worshipper;-of the poor
And innocent lamb the bleatings-as the roar
Of the fierce lion,-or of seraphim
The anthem; and to all beneficent
Thou bendest down Thine ear, and givest
Their destined portion. Thou, who reignest, livest
Eternally, the offering I present
Accept in mercy,-mercifully view
This transitory being,-let me stand
As ever in Thy presence-see Thy hand
In all things, and in all Thy wisdom too.
Fill up my mounting soul
With holy ardour,-that where'er I tread,
Like Thee I may a blessed influence shed,
And own Thee, trace Thee thro' the extended whole
Of the wide universe. The race of man
Are all Thy sons-the Tartar, Laplander,
Rude Indian, and the sunburnt African-
Thine image all-and all my brethren are.