Autumn: Wednesday Evening Poem by John Bowring

The evening star is aloft in heaven,
Palely it shines alone;
And nought is awake in the eye of even,
But the never-sleeping One.
He mildly looks from His throne sublime,
Higher than mortal ken,
On the strange vicissitudes of time,
And stranger follies of men.


From thence our insolent race he scans;
They flutter and pass away,
And all their pursuits and all their plans
Are e'en more fragile than they.
They build vain visions of hope, and all,
All for their own undoing;
They raise the pile of folly-and fall
Buried beneath its ruin.


Is all then folly?-O heaven forbid!
Is all delusive beneath?
No! virtue may build her pyramid,
Peace twine her myrtle wreath.
Is all then darkness, all despair,-
Is all then discord?-No!
Earth has joys as bright as sunbeams are;
There's music of heaven below.


Follow yon holy pilgrim there,
His path is as clear as day;
A thousand angels hovering near
To guide him on his way:
Tho' mountains tremble and rocks should break,
He is firmer far than they;
If he slumber, his spirit shall soon awake
To a glorious morning's ray.


Our bark is driven by joy and woe
O'er the ever-changing wave,
And the moon which lights our footsteps now,
Will shine upon our grave.
And then for ever the glorious one
Shall sink in the tomb-like main:
O blest, if a brighter, purer sun
Shall beam on our rising then!


Great day! when a million lamps shall shine,
With heavenly ether blaze;
When a thousand rainbows of light divine
Shall arch the eternal space.
Above the highest worshipper,
On His star-encircled throne
He sits-whose hand shall then confer
On merit its amaranth crown.


The meekest servant, the humblest son
Of virtue, His smile shall bless;
And shall put a wreath of glory on
The spirit of lowliness.
The children of pomp and wealth and pride,
Shall be met with a cold disdain;
There's many a slave shall be deified,
And many a scorn'd one reign.


There are eyes that have never shed a tear
Of sympathy or distress,
That shall weep and wail for ages there
In trembling hopelessness.
There are cheeks that misery's dewdrops now
Have furrow'd with agony,
That then shall be bright with the holy glow
Of eternal felicity.


Then let the sands of existence fall,
The current of life flow fast;
Our times are in God's own hand, and all,
All will be well at last.
If bitterness dreg our earthly cup,
If sorrow disturb our career;
Eternity's joys can well fill up
The chasms of suffering here.